


Manners Maketh Man: A Gentleman's Handbook

by ibkod



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Depression, Emotionally Repressed, Explicit Sexual Content, Forced Proximity, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Slow Burn, Tropes On Tropes On Tropes, UST, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-05
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2019-01-09 07:24:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12271692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ibkod/pseuds/ibkod
Summary: The world post-Valentine-Massacre is a shit show. Eggsy is irrevocably a part of Kingsman, though in what capacity? Harry pulls a Lazarus and returns to guide his protogé once more in the finer details of being a true gentleman. However, the kids most certainly aren't alright.





	1. Intro Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here we go y'all. This will be a relatively long haul, at least 12+ chapters at 5-10k words a pop. Will be updated regularly.
> 
> Thank you to my sounding board and semi-unofficial-beta letitrainblue. I am, as it happens, in the market for a solid beta and possibly a Brit-picker. If interested please contact me via tumblr (see link in end notes).

[](http://tinypic.com?ref=15qzywh)  


Eggsy Unwin, as of yet unofficial and codename-less agent of Kingsman, has not eaten in 21 hours and has not slept in 42. His left foot has been tingling with pins and needles for 29 minutes and has now gone completely numb, joining his entire right leg and buttock which has been fully numb for the last 2.45 hours. He is sweating heavily in his bulletproof suit, hair hanging out of its coiffed style onto his forehead. A rivulet of sweat beads from his hairline down his forehead, through his eyebrow, and into his eye. He blinks it away, not chancing even the movement of shaking his head, much less wiping it away with his fingers which are currently clutched around the body and trigger of the sniper rifle he is hunched behind. Merlin’s low brogue and smooth cadence in his ear is the only balm of relief to his current situation.

“Almost there, lad. He’s on the move, ETA 30 seconds, will enter from the 10:00 laneway. Wait till he crosses to your 5:00.”

Eggsy grunts. “Can’t I just shoot him as soon as I get a clear shot?” he grits between clenched jaws.

“No. Patience.”

Eggsy doesn’t respond; Merlin’s orders don’t generally brook argument. Instead he flexes his finger on the trigger, trying to dispel the arthritic, stiff feeling of having been poised to pull for the last several hours. He wants, no _needs_ to get this shot in one. It’s his only chance and will render the last 5 torturous days of his life useless if unsuccessful. As well as, y’know, the unfortunate side-effect of the mark escaping with some highly volatile intel that would most likely result in the loss of many innocent lives. Right. That too.

Eggsy mutters lowly, mostly to himself, “ _Fuck_ Morocco, man. Fuck-”

“We have visual.”

“Spotted.”

“Wait for it-...” There are a few agonizing seconds as the mark crosses the courtyard, Eggsy silently praying that no unsuspecting civilian bumbles into sight, then- “Now.”

Eggsy pulls the trigger.

 

* * *

 

Eggsy trudges into the lab six hours later. “Seriously, Merlin, _fuck_ Morocco. Never send me back there, that was shite, absolute shite.”

“It’s actually quite nice if you can-”

“Piss off, Rox. I love you loads but piss off.”

Roxy huffs over the comms but doesn’t respond. Merlin gives her a last set of instructions before sending her feed over to one of the other handlers, comm-link going dead on his computer screen. He swivels around and hooks his ankle around the nearest empty chair, pulling it over and motioning for Eggsy to take a seat. Eggsy gratefully collapses into the chair.

“Playing double duty again, Merlin?” Eggsy drawls as Merlin massages the bridge of his nose. “How’s the Arthur selection going?”

“I think we’re close. It’s been narrowed down to two candidates and if I could hazard a guess I’d place my money on Edward.” Merlin sighs. “I wish they’d get a bloody move on it, though. I don’t know if I can handle another ten months of doing both jobs.”

“Aye,” Eggsy agrees. 

It’s not just Merlin, though. _All_ the remaining agents are pulling extra weight (“overtime” is a bit of a foreign concept in Kingsman), trying to patch holes left by the deaths of several agents in the Valentine Massacre ten months prior. The state of the world remains in emergency having lost 1/10th of its population in the span of a few minutes. Rural areas got off lucky but metropolitan centres such as London were hit hardest. Eggsy remembers countries’ death tolls rolling in immediately following the event, each as a separate stab to the gut. America, with its loose civilian gun laws, had been hit the worst, with a full sixth of its population wiped out.

It had taken months of proxy-mandated therapy sessions to begin to lessen the guilt he felt for every second wasted before he managed to take out Valentine. He still has regular nightmares, still wakes up several times a week in cold sweats choking on his own constricted airway, but he’s able to function well enough during the daylight hours. Well enough that the agency can’t bench him under current circumstances at least. Under normal circumstances... well. 

Not that he’s even officially a Kingsman agent, despite being near-constantly out on one mission or another over the last ten months anyways. With Kingsman being run off its feet and without a proper Arthur to make any new appointments official, Eggsy remains in a strange sort of limbo. He has no official codename, but there was no way Merlin was okay with using Eggsy’s civilian name on missions, and so he had affectionally been dubbed “Galahad Jr.”. Which every time it’s used feels more like a kick in the balls than anything else, though Eggsy keeps mum on his feelings. There’s already enough concern over his being still involved with Kingsman at all having technically failed the final test. He refuses to give them more fodder by adding ‘emotionally compromised’ and ‘attachment issues’ to the list. Eggsy, despite problems with general running of the mouth, does actually know when to keep it closed, thanks very much. He’s not daft; He knows he’s on thin ice still.

At least it appears that his time in Kingsman-purgatory might finally be coming to an end what with the selection of the new Arthur imminent. Just like when filling any other vacant spot at the round table, Eggsy learns a new Arthur is also selected via a pool of candidates. Though this time all senior department members within Kingsman are able to submit a candidate, which is eventually narrowed through a voting process. The other difference is that the Arthur position must be filled from within the Kingsman family. Eggsy had assumed that Merlin would be the most obvious choice to anyone with half a brain, but the Scotsman had flat-out refused as soon as his name was proposed. Kingsman was essentially neutered without the Merlin position covered. Merlin’s second-in-command had been one of the unfortunate victims of the massacre and her death left no one suitable to fill the role should the current Merlin assume the role of Arthur.

Edward Berkeley, the current front-runner for the Arthur chair, is a well-liked ex-field-agent who now works in the intelligence department as a code-breaker following an early retirement from the Leodegrance position due to an injury that left him with a permanent limp in his right leg. He held the position for a respectable 17 years and was by all accounts a capable, trustworthy agent who during his time was a leader within the group. Eggsy tries to take comfort in what Merlin has told him of the man, but can’t help but feel wary after his experience with the previous Arthur. He can only hope that Edward Berkeley is more open-minded than Chester King. Or more desperate...

Regardless, he’s eager to get things sorted out. There has been an inflated number of new recruits in the manor to compensate for the three positions that need to be filled and they are less than two months from their final test. Eggsy averts his mind pointedly way from the thought, still uncomfortable with his own memories of it. The point is, with the recruits nipping at his heels, he needs to secure himself an official position quickly before someone decides to open up all three positions to the candidates and bench Eggsy altogether. Eggsy catches himself, correcting himself mentally; Four positions...

Merlin snaps him out of his own thoughts, demanding they get on with the debriefing so they can both go home and get some sleep.

“That place were bullshit, Merlin. Five days of marinating in that fucking suit smashed into that little hidey-hole. I ain’t joking, bruv, you best not be sending me back there anytime soon.”

Merlin cocks an eyebrow. “Or what?”

 

* * *

 

It takes a full hour to be released from Merlin’s attention and another behind the desk in his (unofficial) office to write up his report. After that it’s the “mandatory” post-mission check-in with medical, which is routinely ignored by sleep-deprived, sweat-marinated agents in lieu of shower and a soft bed, but Eggsy is trying his best to be a good boy and play by the handbook to show that yes, he _can_ follow orders. At least ones that aren’t fucking sociopathic like shooting your family member in cold blood; Because that’s what JB is to Eggsy: family. And yeah, maybe Eggsy can recognize that he has some... _issues_ with the whole idea of ‘family’ that might put him at a slight disadvantage when compared to the rest of these posh wankers who were probably all raised by teams of nannies and tutors, but the problem is will anyone else recognize that? Unlikely, Eggsy thinks. So, yes. Following orders. Rational, _sane_ orders. And Eggsy knows this will come up, _knows_ it will have to be addressed, but they can all get fucked if they think he’s going to apologize for not shooting JB.

Eggsy puts the finishing touches on his report, signs off on the required forms and caps his biro. He leans back in the leather office chair and considers the as-yet relatively bare wall behind his personal desk, making a mental note to pick up today’s Sun on his way home. Using the office in the manor might be a little... evident, he supposes, but it isn’t as if he has an office in a home of his own yet and coming up with a logical reason as to why he is wallpapering the study in the new house with random tabloids to his mum seems unlikely. Eggsy knows the vast majority of staff at Kingsman have never visited that particular room in that particular house and are therefor unaware of the connection. And anyways, the only person who he would be bothered to be embarrassed to have discover it is... well, he isn’t in any danger of discovering it. 

Eggsy pushes his chair away from his desk and drops the forms in the outbox for the staff secretary to pick up, shrugging back into his suit jacket. He briefly contemplates forgoing the trip back into London and taking advantage of one of the rooms available for the field agents before deciding against it, thinking longingly of the feather bed waiting for him in town. Sighing, he collects his things and heads down to the lower bowels of the manor. Merlin gives him a distracted nod as he heads towards the train, clearly having been roped back into whatever Roxy’s situation is. Eggsy dips him a jaunty wink, mask of good cheer an easy and familiar construct, always close at hand.

“Make sure you get some rest soon, aye?” he claps Merlin affectionately on the shoulder as he passes.

Merlin mumbles something (likely purposefully) unintelligible without looking away from his screens or pausing in the steady click-clacking of his fingers flying across the keyboard. Eggsy’s smile settles into something more genuine and fond as he climbs into the padded tartan seats, train door sealing shut behind him. He tips his head back and closes his eyes as he feels the familiar jerk of the train leaving the platform, pressing him back into his seat not unpleasantly. 

Eggsy allows himself to doze off, eventually jerking awake as the train pulls to stop in the tunnel deep below Savile Row. He exits the train and calls down the lift. The doors open only a few seconds later, discharging Kay with whom he exchanges a tired greeting.

“Bad one, eh?”

“Still haven’t got all the feeling back in all my limbs,” Eggsy responds over his shoulder as he enters the lift.

The door closes on Kay’s chuckle. Eggsy likes the man. He’s one of the few agents who doesn’t seem to look down his nose at Eggsy. After ten months of scrambling around trying to patch craters with bubble gum and doing a pretty decent job of it if he does say so himself, Eggsy feels like he’s finally starting to make some leeway in proving his worth to some of the more reticent agents who hadn’t been entirely won over by his Valentine-exploits once the dust settled. But Kay, aside from Gawain, was the first to put a friendly hand on Eggsy’s arm after their first Kingsman meeting post-almost-apocalypse and give him a squeeze, saying, “Well done, boy. None of us could have done it better. And I’m sorry about... well I know he was your sponsor. He would have been proud.”

Eggsy had said something he has no memory of that he had tried to make sound beatific but likely came out slightly unhinged if the look on Kay’s face had been anything to go by, and promptly excused himself to the nearest toilet where he was violently sick. After that the other knights that saw fit to be friendly had stayed away from that particular topic. Most seem by now to be accepting of him, or at least pleasantly civil to his face, though a few still seem to regard him with haughty disdain. Eggsy’s never much cared for others’ opinions of him so he finds it strange indeed to be so aware of it. He hopes, not for the first time, that once he is named officially as a Kingsman Agent (because that’s what is going to happen, obviously.... surely) that the others will accept him and perhaps eventually grow to like him.

Because Eggsy, for the first time since he was a very little boy, is _desperate_ to be liked. This incredible thing has been handed to him - a path, a way to provide for and protect his family - and for the first time he _wants_ it. Badly. To the point where... circumstances as they are... he doesn’t really know what he’d do if they canned him. But surely Merlin wouldn’t set up a house to move his mum and Daisy into if he figured this wasn’t permanent. Merlin could be a cranky bastard, but he wasn’t cruel.

The lift locks into place within fitting room one and Eggsy waits the prescribed 7 seconds before swinging the door open. With a brief nod to the elderly tailor on duty, he thinks his name is Aberforth, Eggsy jogs down the shop steps and onto the sidewalk, hailing the company car parked outside. He climbs in, pulling off his glasses and sighing.

“Which way, sir?”

Eggsy runs a fatigued hand over his face, rubbing briefly at his eyes which are beginning to burn with the effort of not letting them droop. “Primrose, thanks.”

The ride is slow with morning rush hour and Eggsy allows himself to drift again. His mum will fuss over him, wanting to make sure he returned from his “business trip” safe and sound, get some breakfast in him. His stomach gives a growl, reminding him that despite the small plate of food he’d managed to scarf down on the plane ride home, he still has eaten very little in... several days, really. He thinks of his mum busy over the hob in her swanky new kitchen in the swanky new house not even a block from the Hill making bacon and eggs while Eggsy entertains Daisy, and he feels a bone-deep contentment settle over him. If being currently run into the ground and balanced on thin emotional threads is the price to pay for this new life for his mum and sister, he would happily go sit in that sweltering attic in bloody Marrakech for another 5 days.

“We’ve arrived, sir,” the driver alerts him.

“Thanks, bruv,” Eggsy winks at the pursed-lipped look the driver (Bertie? Andrew?) gives him through the rearview mirror and unbuckles himself.

“Will you be staying, sir?” 

“Not long I reckon. Maybe an hour. I’ll give you a heads up.”

“Very good, sir.”

Eggsy extricates himself stiffly out of the backseat and onto the sidewalk in front of the beautiful semidetached Merlin had procured for him upon asking. One of the first things Eggsy had done once they returned to London and began the process of picking up the many frayed ends around them was to ask Merlin to help him find a place to relocate his family. The property Merlin brought to him a week later was a Kingsman property (the agency owned dozens of affluent abodes and not-so-affluent safe houses in London and indeed around the world) that had been empty for several years following the death of its previous tenant. Eggsy had been thrilled to learn it was far enough from the estates to be in a safe, well-appointed neighbourhood, close to both Regents Park and the Heath, but still close enough that Michelle would be familiar with the area and still in close proximity to her old friends. Dean’s timely demise amid the massacre had been a weight lifted from all their shoulders, though his mum still went through bouts of struggling with all the change. When she was ready, he promised himself, he would get her the best therapist money could buy.

Eggsy had already tried to tell her she didn’t have to worry about providing for them and could quit her job at least a dozen times over the first few months, but Michelle flatly refused to quit the salon. Out from under Dean’s shadow and no longer ashamed or trying to hide anything, Eggsy was so proud to see his mum begin to blossom again. She told him confidently that she took great pride in her job and wanted to continue. Eggsy hadn’t badgered her about it again and instead found a wonderful daycare to enrol Daisy in just a few blocks down the road along Primrose Hill for the three days per week Michelle chose to work at the salon.

Today is Saturday, and they will both be home, probably just roused from bed. Daisy is just old enough to be sleeping though the early hours of the morning to a more humane time. Eggsy quietly unlocks the front door and slips inside. He can hear his mum cooing to Daisy from within the kitchen and he carefully makes just enough noise shutting the door and removing his shoes to alert his mum of his presence. He has learned to not sneak up on her. Daisy, on the other hand, remains oblivious to her brother’s arrival and Eggsy softly tip-toes into the kitchen and up behind her booster seat, his mum putting on a show of pretending not to see anything.

He claps his hands gently over Daisy’s eyes. “Guess who, Dais?”

Daisy immediately screeches in delight. “EGG! EGG!” she hollers, flailing at his hands in an attempt to unmask herself.

Eggsy grasps her around her middle as she succeeds in twisting bodily to face him and hauls her up to his chest, cuddling her close as she wraps her small arms in a vice round his neck. Having heard Eggsy’s voice, JB comes tumbling down the stairs, tripping over his own stubby legs to greet him. Eggsy crouches down to skritch JB’s wrinkly head and Daisy clutches tighter around his neck lest she be put down.

“Steady on, Dee! You gonna choke me!” Eggsy mimes suffocation to his little sister’s great amusement.

His mum sidles up beside them, wrapping her arm around Eggsy in a one-arm hug, batter-coated spoon held away from Daisy’s reaching arms in the other hand. “Welcome back, babe. You look knackered.” She smacks a kiss on his temple.

“Starving, mum.” Eggsy admits, pecking her on the cheek in return. 

“Well you’re in luck, love. I’ve got pancakes on. You sit yourself down and let your poor mum take care of you.” 

Eggsy groans in pleasure. “You’re an angel, mum. Sounds like heaven.”

She gives him a squeeze before extricating herself from her children. As she steps away Eggsy swipes a finger through the batter on the spoon in her hand which she brandishes at him menacingly before turning her attention back on breakfast. Eggsy turns his attention back to Daisy who is struggling in his arms to grab hold of his battered finger and bring it closer to her. He playfully deposits a dollop of the mix onto her small, upturned nose before sticking his finger into his mouth, cleaning it off with a loud _pop_. Daisy shrieks (“ _EGG!!!_ ”), pawing at the batter on her nose with both hands and proceeds to try and shove both of them into her mouth at the same time.

 

* * *

 

It takes the better part of two hours before his mum is willing to relinquish Eggsy from her fussing and worrying. Truly though, Eggsy doesn’t mind. He’s too happy seeing her finally happy. It had taken a few months for her to stop asking impossible-to-answer questions about work and his “friend” and _when could she meet this man?_. Eggsy has gotten very good at carefully redirecting conversation into safe waters. However, the uncomfortable questions have begun to taper off lately, to Eggsy’s huge relief. He _hates_ having to lie to his mother, but Merlin had been as firm as Eggsy had ever seen him in requiring absolute secrecy, even from his own family.

Eggsy rocks Daisy in his arms, turning in a slow circle as she plasters herself to his chest, as warm and comforting a security blanket as Eggsy’s ever had. She’s really getting too big to be held like this, like a baby, but he can’t help it. He tucks his head into the soft blonde curls at her neck and breathes in the sweet smell of her, letting it soothe his frazzled nerves and frayed edges. His mum is nattering cheerfully about work and Daisy’s exploits at daycare and taking JB for walks on the Heath every day. Daisy _adores_ JB, probably even more than she adores Eggsy. If Eggsy weren’t so attached to the little pug himself, he’d give her to Daisy in a second. As it is, JB visits “Grandma” and “Auntie Dais” often enough that he probably spends more time with them than with Eggsy.

“Time to go, princess,” Eggsy murmurs to her softly, loathe to hand over her drowsy warmth to his mum.

Daisy gives a small sound of protest but is easily transferred to his mum, golden head lolling onto Michelle’s shoulder loosely. “Too much excitement,” his mum hums softly. “She hardly slept last night, asking if you was coming home in the morning.”

Eggsy scratches his neck, wincing. “Sorry, mum. Problems with the order getting delayed. I know I said three days...”

“S’alright, darling,” his mum smiles warmly at him. “Just glad you’re safe and sound.”

He kisses her cheek again and retrieves his suit jacket from where he hung it off the back of one of the kitchen chairs. “Gotta get some sleep.”

After another round of kisses and hugs Eggsy finally manages to get out the front door where the car is already waiting at the curb, having sent off a text a half hour ago requesting a pick up. He slides in, at this point hardly able to fumble his seatbelt into place. 

“Where to, sir? Home?”

Eggsy swallows. Won’t allow himself to agree to calling it that. “The mews, please.”

Like every day, Eggsy still feels a small pit open in the bottom of his stomach on the drive towards Kensington. He wonders distantly when that will become numb as well.

 

* * *

 

The first time Eggsy had come back to the empty house in Kensington he had been worried that it had been left unlocked in his fury to confront Chester King and had told himself he was returning only to check that it was secure and would leave immediately after. Of course, it hadn’t worked out quite like that. Eggsy had found the front door safely locked. He should have left then, as he’s told himself countless times since then. But he hadn’t. Instead he had pulled out the key he’d been left with (“Take it. If you need it, use it. No- it doesn’t matter.”) and turned it in the lock till the bolt released with a heavy _clunk_. Bracing himself as if for a blast, Eggsy had closed his eyes and stepped through the threshold, unconsciously holding his breath. 

It was untouched, of course. The tea set remained on its silver platter on the dining table, handsome overcoats hung on the elegant coatrack beside the door, carefully polished oxfords in two neat rows on the shoe rack below. A leather-bound (and even in his state, deep down some small part of him had to roll its eyes because of _course_ it was leather-bound) book lay open on the small table beside the sofa next to a half-full china teacup painted with finely filigreed chinoiserie, contents long gone cold. The tablet still lay face-down on the edge of the narrow console table in the hallway. Eggsy had felt immediately as if he had been stabbed in the gut and gasped for air, which was a mistake. The smell of the house was far worse, the knife twisting painfully. His legs suddenly seemed to give out beneath him and he sank slowly to the floor and finally, finally cried.

It had been a long while before the hiccuping sobs had abated and Eggsy felt like he had regained some modicum of control over his own body again. Gripping the railing to the stairs he had pulled himself up, emotionally drained and physically exhausted. He toed off his shoes, placing them carefully next to the others and hung his suit jacket gingerly on the one empty peg of the coat rack, then dragged his leaden legs up the flight of stairs. Without consciously deciding to, Eggsy had found himself outside the study. He stood for several long minutes, half-formed thoughts chasing themselves round and round through his mind, a strange echoing reverberation seeming to have taken up residence in his own head. He had felt like he was experiencing everything from under 10 metres of water, slowed down and pressing in. 

Unable to bring himself enter the study, he’d continued down the hallway and ended up in the master bedroom which was, of course, far worse. If he’d had any tears left to shed he’d have been right back on his knees; the bedroom was overwhelming and smelled so sharply, still, as if it had been inhabited mere hours ago. Eggsy had seen the delicate bottle of cologne on the chest of drawers, unlabeled, a custom creation. He had dimly taken in the other details of the room he had only had the guts to sneak a passing look in on the way to the bathroom last time he had been here. The large four-poster bed was, surprisingly, unmade, the dark duvet pulled down on one side to reveal rich cream sheets, the pillow still dented in its centre. The rest of the room was immaculately clean save for two items: a white button-down shirt draped over the back of the cozy looking reading chair to the right of the bed, and a folded pair of black reading glasses resting on the bedside table.

Feet seeming to move on their own accord, Eggsy had shuffled over to the chair and sat heavily onto it before reaching unseeing over his shoulder to where the shirt was and pulling it into his lap. He sat looking at it for a long while, running the fine seams between his fingers and caressing the small, subtly pearled buttons. It may have once been a dress shirt but was clearly past its useful years, well-worn, well-loved. The fabric had softened to something almost sheer to the touch, the once-crisp angles of of the collar relaxed into silken folds. Before he could talk himself out of it, Eggsy had simultaneously lifted the shirt up and collapsed down, bending at the waist, burying his face in the delicate shirt and inhaling deeply. The scent of the cologne had filled his nose, coating his airway.

Eggsy had sat up, dragging a hand down his puffy face. _Fuck it_ , he’d said to himself, and rose to his feet, stripping down to his underwear before slipping his arms into the shirt, shirttails brushing low on his thighs and cuffs dangling below his hands, making him feel small and surrounded. He had crawled into the bed where the covers were peeled back, as if inviting him in, refusing to think about exactly what he was doing, and had fallen asleep cocooned in that familiar scent and the softness all around him.

That had been nearly a full ten months ago, and Eggsy has yet to leave. Whenever possible for the next few weeks after that first time, he had returned guiltily to the refined row of mews and collapsed into the bed, exhausted from the too-long hours at work or having just stumbled off a plane from God-knows-where after putting yet another bullet into yet another body because the chaos of the massacre had provided a perfect opportunity for a certain breed of thugs to try and take advantage of the power vacuums felt worldwide. 

Slowly, though, things had begun to settle enough for some amount of routine to become apparent. Merlin had come up with that house and Eggsy had moved his mum and sister into it is fast as possible once the minimal repair work was completed, originally thinking he would be living with them. However, Merlin had pulled him aside and gently told him that living separately would be for the better. Easier to explain a wardrobe full of bespoke suits worth thousands of pounds each despite being just an apprentice. Easier to explain why he has to keep a lock on his bedroom door lest Daisy wander in and get hold of one exploding accessory or another. Easier to explain disappearing in the middle of the night and not knowing when he’ll return. Easier to explain the cuts and bruises and broken bones and hospital visits.

Eggsy had reluctantly agreed but before he could even ask what he should do in the meantime while looking for his own living space, Merlin had cut him off, laying a hand firmly on his shoulder and saying, “Just stay where you’ve been staying, lad. He wouldn’t mind.”

Swallowing around the sick feeling of bile rising in the back of his throat, Eggsy had mutely nodded, not meeting Merlin’s eyes. Merlin had kindly not said anything more.

And so here he is. Eggsy unlocks the door, same as he had done all those months ago. The house still smells like someone else, and while it still twists something painful in his chest every time he steps inside, Eggsy prefers it that way. He slowly removes his shoes, tucks the laces neatly inside and places them next to the others. Hangs his jacket on the same empty hook. Upstairs, the door to the red office is still shut. He passes it, makes his way to the master bedroom, feet dragging along the rich carpet with weariness. Eggsy deliberately and carefully undresses himself, depositing the clothing in the hamper in the closet and meticulously places his cufflinks, ring, watch, and tie pin next to the others in the handsome pull-out drawers.

He knows it’s not right, not healthy, feels sick in the head if he thinks about it but the alternative isn’t something he’s capable of. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

He pulls on the shirt, gathering its loose folds around himself like a child and climbs into bed, falling immediately into a deep sleep.


	2. Intro Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things to note: I changed some timeline stuff from the first chapter while writing this out. The main thing is that Harry is 'dead' for 10 months, not 5.
> 
> I also fudged Eggsy's age a little bit. I think the consensus was he was 22-24 in the movie. I decided to make him 25. For reasons.
> 
> I did a fair amount of research into different accounts of waking up from a coma so I hope it doesn't read too... weird lol idk. Also let's just ignore the fact that Harry woke up from his coma in the movie and literally rolled out of bed and went on a mission >:| Hopefully this is slightly more realistic.
> 
> Thanks so much to letitrainblue for the beta and randomactsofviolence on tumblr for the Britpick! You da real MVPs.
> 
> Anyway. See notes at the end for links to goodies etc. Kudos and comments are very much appreciated.

  
[](http://tinypic.com?ref=r1hrir)  


 

Harry Hart, multi-decade veteran and very official agent of Kingsman despite being officially, well... deceased, wakes up after four months, 12 days and 13 hours unconscious. His first thought is that he is dead. _If you’re thinking you’re dead, you’re not dead_ , a man says. His body is slow to join his brain in wakefulness and he spends exactly 27 seconds in foggy rising panic that he is paralyzed before his left fingers begin to tingle. As the feeling slowly spreads through the rest of his body he becomes aware of a sharp ache in his left temple before the water raises above his head and he is under again, limbs useless to push him to surface.

 

* * *

 

Two days, six hours and 11 minutes later Harry surfaces again, comes awake gasping for air but unable to breathe. Something is in his mouth, in his throat, he realizes, blocking him from breathing. His fingers wrap around something long and slender protruding from his mouth and he pulls desperately at it but it’s agony. He is dimly aware of a frantic beeping, but hears it from far away, like his ears are full of water. He opens his eyes just in time to fuzzily make out a figure rushing to his side and pushing his hands away with one hand, the other busy beyond his field of vision. He looks down at where their hands are grappling, vision smearing and depthless, horror flushing cold through his veins. 

_toilet snorkel_ , his brain supplies, and in utter revulsion he tries to recoil, but something is pressing him down, deeper, until-

_you’re drowning._

 

* * *

 

Four days, two hours and 19 minutes later, Harry becomes aware that he is having a conversation. He is in the recruit dormitory and he is talking to Eggsy who is on the other side of the two-way mirror, which is currently just a window. The dormitory side is underwater.

_you’re bleeding._

Harry doesn’t understand. “I’m fine, I’ve only drowned.” He feels perfectly alright.

Eggsy shakes his head. _you’re not drowned, you’re bleeding._

Harry opens his mouth to respond, calmly, but the window turns back into a mirror and he watches with as blood pours from the pulpy crater that gapes above his left eye, clouding the water around him. His mouth his full of blood and he tries to swallow it down because he just needs a second to breathe but there’s so much of it he just swallows and swallows and swallows.

_when are you coming home?_

Eggsy is in front of him, reaching both hands out to cup Harry’s face tenderly before he presses his thumbs into Harry’s eyes and presses and presses and-

 

* * *

 

_wake up._

He does as he’s told. It has been 32 hours and three minutes since he last drowned. There is a scream ringing in his ears but it is slowly growing fainter with distance.

Harry is aware that he is awake, that some sort of fog has lifted, and he is now on the other side. He lays where he is, knows he is alive, and waits for the tingling feeling to start in his digits. It comes slower than before, or maybe it just feels that way. He’s waiting to drown again, but it doesn’t come. He is able to make a loose fist with his right hand and curl his toes on his left foot. Checking off a mental list, he takes tally of each finger, each toe, each limb, each muscle. They respond, but sluggishly and feebly.

He is afraid to open his eyes. Spends 13 and a half minutes laying there trying to work up the courage before he’s startled into it by a hand on his wrist. He opens them, but it’s blindingly bright and he has to shut them immediately closed again.

“Slowly, dear,” a woman’s voice soothes from above him. “Take your time.”

He works up to it. It takes several excruciating minutes, but eventually he manages it. His vision is blurry, strangely filmy towards the left. He finds it hard to focus on anything and when he does it’s only for a few seconds before he feels a stabbing pain in his left temple and has to close his eyes again.

The woman - a nurse, he assumes - is talking. 

“-to be expected. Don’t worry too much about that now. It’s muscle atrophy and will lessen eventually.”

“How long-” he asks, but his voice comes out in only a hoarse whisper, which hurts his vocal chords.

She pats his arm kindly. “Later, dear. Sleep now.”

He does as he’s told, and drowns one more.

 

* * *

 

It is only 11 hours and 22 minutes when Harry wakes again, and this time it’s for good. He’s aware of voices around him, coming into sharper focus, and hands running over his legs and arms, assessing. He makes a sound and realizes his airway is free of tubes and he swallows dryly, throat clicking, before cautiously opening his eyes.

“Ah good, there you are.” American accents, Harry realizes. “Welcome back, sir.”

His vision is strange and slips at the edges, repeatedly tunnels with blurriness before resolving. The voice that just spoke to him belongs to someone on his left, though he is having a hard time making out their features, vision milky towards that side. To his right is a nurse who smiles at him encouragingly as she massages his forearm from elbow to wrist, kneading firmly. It hurts.

“Do you know where you are?”

He turns his head to get a better look at the woman speaking on his left, the effort monumental. She is of middle age, grey beginning to streak her shiny black hair pulled tightly into a ponytail. She has kind eyes which crinkle in the corners as she smiles at him.

He goes to shake his head but the motion immediately send sharp pains vibrating through his head. “No,” he rasps instead, and guesses, “America?”

“That’s right. And do you know who you are?” She is soothingly massaging his hand, fingers pressing into the meat of his palm. His fingers tingle, nerves sparking.

“My name is Harry Hart.” He doesn’t, in fact, remember. The name comes to him without thought or premeditation, but he knows it’s the truth.

The doctor clicks her tongue in approval. “Well that’s something. You’ve been John Doe to us all this time. You can call me Doctor Yan.”

“How long?” His voice is hoarse from disuse. He is afraid of the answer, can feel it coming in the way his body feels deflated, muscles flaccid and atrophied.

The doctor trades a look with the nurse over his body before answering hesitantly, “It has been a few months, Mr. Hart. What do you remember?”

“How long. Please.”

She sighs. “Four and a half months.”

He feels a shout rising in his throat and tamps down on it brutally. He doesn’t understand.

“Can you remember anything, Mr. Hart?” the young nurse on his right asks again.

“No, I-” he croaks, and clenches his fists weakly. He remembers his row with Eggsy, remembers leaving on the Kingsman jet, but then things are blank. 

“What’s the last thing you remember?” the doctor prompts softly.

He hesitates, thinking his way sluggishly around an alibi, taking advantage of the pause the nurse handing him a cup of water provides. “I... I remember being on the plane from London, and that’s it.” It’s the truth, more or less.

Dr. Yan chuckles and pats his shoulder, finished massaging his hand. “It’s alright, Mr. Hart. We might not have all the blanks filled in, but we’re aware you’re...” she pauses thoughtfully before continuing delicately, “Not your average civilian. Neither are we.”

Harry startles, feels the panic rise swiftly like deep waters, but the doctor shakes her head and squeezes his shoulder. “No no, Mr. Hart. We’re friendly faces, no need to worry. You’re lucky we found you, in fact.”

“Please. What happened?” His voice is clearer, now, but hoarse, like he’s just recovering from bronchitis.

She sighs. “I’d like you to get some more rest, Mr. Hart. I’m afraid this is going to be a long road, so there is no rush here. The answers are not going anywhere,” she cuts him off as he protests, before saying sympathetically, “Sleep, Harry. I will give you all the answers I can when you wake up.”

Harry does as he’s told, and this time he doesn’t drown.

 

* * *

 

The lights are dimmed when Harry next wakes and he assumes it must be nighttime. Despite that, he finds Dr. Yan sitting a few feet from his bed. She is scribbling on a pad of paper between intermittently squinting up at one of the monitors above the head of the bed. There is a man seated in the chair next to her who is busy tapping away on his mobile. Harry clears is throat.

Dr. Yan startles, jumping slightly in her seat. “Ah, Mr. Hart! How are you feeling?”

“Fine, thank you,” Harry says politely, waiting.

“Can I get you anything? You must be hungry, I’ll call down for a meal. Would you like to eat first?”

“I’d rather have that conversation as promised, Dr. Yan. If it’s alright with you,” he adds on solicitously.

She smiles to herself briefly before motioning to the other man. “This is my colleague Mr. Blake. He’s here to fill you in on the more ‘classified’ aspects of what has happened. We are a part of your American counterpart, Statesmen.”

A puzzle piece clicks into place. The man nods courteously to Harry who inclines his head in return.

“Glad to see you among the living, Mr. Hart. It’s good to finally be able to put a name to our mystery guest after all these months.” He has a pleasant voice with a southern roundness that belies his formal speech. “Let me start off by saying that your identity has been kept under strict confidentiality. We were not able to trace you back to your agency until we could confirm your identity. Rest assured we have made contact with Kingsman and you will be allowed to make contact with them very soon. I do regret that we may have given your handler a rather large shock,” he ends with a slight chuckle.

Harry’s gut twists at the mention of Merlin, mind already spinning. “So they didn’t know.” It’s more of a statement than a question.

“My good man, they thought you were dead!”

The bottom of Harry’s stomach drops away. With difficulty, he says, “Please, from the beginning.”

“Of course, of course-”

Dr. Yan cuts in quickly “Now Mr. Hart, there is a good day and a half of your memory prior to your injury missing. It’s possible this time will never return to you. But it’s also possible that you may find that hearing about the events will jog your memory. This can happen in sudden bursts or gradually over the next months. I must ask that if you experience any traumatic flashbacks or begin to feel unwell you speak up and we will continue this conversation at a later time once you’ve had chance to rest more.”

Harry begins to feel distinctly uneasy about the information he is about to be told, but he agrees anyways, knowing the truth will come sooner or later.

The man continues. “I understand your last memory currently is of being en route to Kentucky to investigate Richard Valentine’s trial run of his SIM cards, correct?” Harry nods. “Now, what you’re about to learn, we’ve only just now privy to ourselves after talking to your Merlin.” The name sounds funny in his soft drawl.

Dr. Yan interjects smoothly again, “He was very adamant that he be the one to tell you what happened, Mr. Hart. We told him that if you were agreeable, we would allow him to video call and speak with you under our supervision.”

“Security is still an issue,” Mr. Blake explains, “more so than, uh, before, actually. You will be able to speak with him further at a later date but until then he is only to fill you in with regards to the event which he witnessed.”

Harry doesn’t understand, at all really, but he nods his head like he does, mindful of his headache. “I’d like that very much.”

The man pulls a screen out from where it is mounted and tucked against the wall beside him and angles it toward the bed. Briefly struck by vanity, Harry realizes he has no idea what he looks like. He runs a hand absently through his hair which has clearly not been cut since he last had it done himself. A brief touch to his jaw reveals someone has been kind enough to trim his beard though, even if it is rough with stubble currently. Other than that, he has no idea. Imagines he looks quite rough and altogether too thin, but he reckons Merlin has probably seen him worse. He places his hands in his lap just as the link connects and Merlin’s face materializes on the screen.

“Harry,” Merlin breathes out, a sea of emotion conveyed in the single word. His palms are spread flat on the metal desk in front of him. “Jesus it’s good to see you.”

Harry swallows around the lump in his throat. “Merlin...” He’s suddenly unsure of what to say. “What happened?” is what comes out, sounding like a desperate plea.

“Harry,” Merlin clears his throat, uncharacteristically floundering for words. “This-... I want to warn you this will be difficult. Promise me you’ll keep in mind that you were not at fault.”

It’s not reassuring. Harry feels ill. Merlin continues without waiting for a response.

Harry listens silently with a growing sense of detachment to what he did in that church in Kentucky. He can tell that Merlin does his best to school his features into something passive, unemotional, and he delivers his account with clinical precision. Head wound, chest wound, impalement, blunt force trauma, stabbing, immolation, electrocution- the list goes on and on. With every number Harry feels further away from himself, recoiling further away from the repulsion until, by number 40, he is somewhere else entirely, an empty space, just four clean white walls and a ceiling. 

“I... see,” is his response when Merlin finally finishes with Harry’s own apparent death via head wound.

Merlin looks devastated, brow creasing with worry now that his report is concluded. “Harry. It wasn’t your fault.”

“Yes” Harry agrees, hearing his own voice as if from the opposite end of a long tunnel. “Yes, I know.”

His ears are ringing and there is a rushing sound rising up, closing in, like floodwaters. He is aware of three sets of eyes on him, regarding him with apprehensive pity, waiting for something more in response. Harry realizes his hands are clenched in the hospital sheets. He carefully releases them and folds his hands neatly in his lap again.

“If I could have a moment alone I would appreciate that.”

Dr. Yan and Mr. Blake respectfully avert their gazes, rising from their seats to leave. Merlin, however, opens his mouth to say something, but Harry cuts him off. “Merlin. Old friend. Please.”

Merlin’s lips thin and he looks beyond grim, but he doesn’t say anything more.

It takes a good deal of effort to keep his voice level enough to say, “Thank you for being the one to tell me. I will speak to you soon.” He nods his head once to Mr. Blake who graciously cuts the feed and leaves the room behind Dr. Yan.

“Just use the alert buzzer when you’re ready, Harry.” Dr. Yan says, shutting the door.

 

* * *

 

Back in the early noughties Harry had been mandated to see a therapist for several months following a particularly messy mission that had derailed in a rather spectacular, if not gruesome fashion. The man had been an expounder of the benefits of holistic practices and Harry had spent a truly excessive number of hours sitting shoe-less and cross-legged in his bespoke suit on a fringed cushion on the floor listening to “breathe in... breathe out... feel your sacral chakra expanding and grounding you,” while trying not to throw up due to the cloying scent of incense wafting around them and creating an extensive list of creative torture scenarios as revenge on Merlin for hiring this lunatic.

The breathing exercises, though he would never admit it to Merlin even under considerable duress, prove to be very useful in keeping the waves lapping at his sanity at bay. With each exhale he imagines the tide receding a little further than the last one, until the bright ringing in his ears dwindles into silence and he is able to unclench his jaw. After about 15 minutes he opens his eyes and reaches for the alert buzzer near the railing of his hospital bed.

Dr. Yan pops her head in the door without entering. “Everything alright, Mr. Hart?”

“Yes, thank you. I’d like to continue.”

She leaves momentarily to retrieve Mr. Blake. Both entering, they settle back in their previous seats.

“Alright,” Mr. Blake begins. “So, obviously Valentine and his cronies mistook you as dead. Your clever glasses helped deflect some of the impact but were destroyed as a result, severing your connection with Kingsman who, having witnessed you shot in the head, also assumed you had met your end.”

Dr. Yan continues. “You were picked up shortly after by EMTs called in by nearby civilians who had heard the gunshots in the church, and you were taken to Lexington, Kentucky to their Level I trauma center. A team of excellent neurosurgeons were able to extract the bullet fragments but they found something rather curious in your head that also happened to save your life,” she says with a small smile.

Harry huffs out a breath, understanding. “The plate.”

As it happened, that same therapy-ensuing failed mission had another result: a small, poly-carbon synthetic bone plate that had replaced the supraorbital ridge under his left brow.

“Indeed. And being that your little bionic-man addition is still a very hush-hush invention not yet released to the public, certain questions began to be asked. Take into account your lack of identification that didn’t under investigation turn out to be falsified... well. It only took a day for our intel to sense something amiss and for our hounds to sniff you out. You were entirely unconscious for the entirety of what happened next.”

She defers to her colleague who clears his throat. “I’m sure you’ll be able to get a first-hand account of the exact events from your people soon, but the gist is this: The experiment at the church was such a resounding success Valentine decided to proceed with his larger plans immediately. A lot of those disappeared bigwigs were in his pocket. The ones that didn’t agree he had locked up as prisoners. He sent out the heads up and they all went underground or joined him in his remote base. Your guys managed to pull off a pretty incredible feat with a three-man team simultaneously knocking one of his satellites out to interrupt the connection and infiltrating the base to take him out. Your wizard there managed to hack into Valentine’s system far enough to activate the ‘protector’ SIM cards implanted in the heads of the traitors who agreed to go along with him, setting them off. Quite the fireworks display, I’ll tell you that much. Thinned out the crowd enough to allow your man to get through and take Valentine out.”

Before Harry can respond Dr. Yang speaks up. “Unfortunately there still were several minutes where the SIM cards were active and broadcasting once Valentine managed to re-route the signal.”

Harry steels himself. “And the numbers? How bad?”

Dr. Yan sighs, a weary, hollowed out look entering her eyes. Eyes losing their kind cheerfulness, she looks at least a decade older. “Devastating. Millions on millions of lives.”

“That’s not a number.”

“To be frank with you, Mr. Hart, the numbers are still stabilizing. It’s difficult to quantify, even more to confirm. The last number the media reported was around 700 million. Our intelligence indicates closer to a billion,” Mr. Blake says bluntly.

Harry doesn’t know how to take that. Doesn’t know how to make sense of it. He finds himself speechless. The two Statesmen allow him a moment to try to process the information, but the number just echoes around his empty brain nonsensically, deafening.

“We can come back to this,” Dr. Yan says gently. “But I’d like to continue with what happened to you now.”

Not able to find his voice yet, he dips his head in acknowledgement and she carries on.

“In the confusion of the direct aftermath we saw an opportunity to extract you from the hospital in Lexington. One of our agents was able to do so on his way back from tying up some volatile loose ends in Georgia a day later. You were transferred to our facilities here in Washington and put under the care of our medical team. I have been overseeing your recovery. You have undergone four surgeries under our care, three of them cranial and occipital and one to repair a torn ligament from a stab wound you incurred in your back. 

“You spent 3 months in a natural coma, 3 weeks under medical means to allow us to perform surgery and monitor organ and brain function, followed by another 3 weeks under medical inducement to allow for healing. We have been weaning you off of the sedatives for the last week now. You may have some recollection of waking up a few times prior to this.”

Harry is still at a loss for words. “I...” He swallows, searching for something appropriate. “Thank you, of course. For all that you’ve done for me.”

Dr. Yan’s smile is mild. “You’re welcome, but it was partly to cover our own asses. We needed to find out who you were.”

“Regardless,”

She nods. “Regardless. You’re welcome, Harry. But you have a long road ahead of you. You’re lucky to have been in good health and excellent fitness before your accident, it will make your recovery shorter and less arduous. But that being said, your body is severely atrophied. We have done our best to stimulate and relax your muscles with electrotherapy, physio and regular massage, but you have still suffered considerable loss of muscle mass.

“And... and my vision?” he asks gingerly, warily. “I’ve noticed my left eye...”

Dr. Yan nods. “Yes. Part of your vision issues currently can be attributed to muscle atrophy as well. But your left eye was damaged by a bullet fragment as well as the occipital nerve suffered a period of reduced oxygenation due to swelling in your brain due to the impact of the bullet. We have repaired the damage to the nerve to the best of our considerable ability and fortunately your damaged retina has done well healing in the safety of your long nap.” Her mouth quirks again.

“Will the cloudiness go away?”

“With time hopefully. We can’t make any guarantees though, Mr. Hart.”

“Of course,” Harry acquiesces. “You’ve done more than I could hope for regardless. I’m alive, after all.”

 

* * *

 

It takes another five days for Kingsman and Statesmen to parlay a deal where Merlin and Harry are able to speak over a private feed, because, well, there _are_ secrets, regardless of being allies. In the meantime Harry sleeps an inordinate amount due to every recovery task he is assigned being correspondingly inordinately exhausting. He meets with every physical therapist in Statesmen’s arsenal daily, going through rounds of exercises ranging from practicing writing and speech therapy to physio and massage therapy.

He is frustrated constantly by his fragility after a lifetime of being in the top percentile of fitness and training. Dr. Yan spares his dignity by removing herself from his room the day after The Talk when she leaves a walker at his bedside. He tries not to feel angry at himself or like a failure when he grabs onto it out of necessity, having tried to walk unaided and stumbled embarrassingly on his first step. By the end of the day he is able to shuffle a lap around the room like an old man and Dr. Yan rewards him by removing his catheter during which he lets out a most ungentlemanly stream of curse-words.

He gets up in the middle of that same night to relieve himself and realizes right as he’s turning the bathroom light on that he has yet to look in a mirror and perhaps right now, still volatile, vulnerable and not to mention half-asleep, is not the best time to be reacquainted with his reflection. He’s half-relieved and half-disappointed half-a-second later when he finds that the mirror has been removed. But can see the screws that had held it in place and the shadow of its shape somehow burned into the painted cement that supported it and Harry knows it was removed on purpose and he worries. He takes care of business and returns to bed, laying down and running his hands over his face, trying to feel the differences. He falls asleep as his fingers drowsily brush over the raised scars he can feel on his forehead and through his brow, right down to his eye, unable to actualize a mental image of what they must look like on his face. The next morning he asks Dr. Yan for a mirror and she distracts him by removing the stitches from his back, during which he curses less like a gentleman and more like a sailor and promptly forgets about the mirror.

Harry also catches up on what has been happening in the world post-massacre. He reads everything that is therapist-approved and sent to the tablet Mr. Blake had given him before leaving the night they’d met. Because yes, Harry is not so stiff-upper-lip to recognize that regardless of how much he wishes to and how skilled he is at repressing his emotions, this is kind of a Big One and in the interest of his career and what remains of his sanity it would behoove him to talk to someone who isn’t Merlin.

He does talk to Merlin, through, once allowed. On the third day since his ‘Awakening’ (and the forever-adolescent that resides in all grown men and women snickers at that the first time his therapist uses it), Mr. Blake returns to hand Harry a new tablet, Kingsman issued and sent by Merlin personally. He taps his watch, saying, “30 minutes, Mr. Hart. Then Doctor Hawkes will be arriving for your session,” before exiting the ward.

Harry spends a moment admiring the comfortingly familiar piece of tech before nearly dropping it in surprise when the video call from HQ rings. He accepts, and Merlin’s face fills the screen. Harry props the tablet on the small side table next to the armchair he had been sitting in practicing signing his name. His left hand has a shivering tremor that drives him mad but will only resolve if he doesn’t think about it. Suffice to say his luck in that department has been limited to say the least.

“Harry,” Merlin greets him, Scottish lilt curling warmly around the Rs in his name.

“Merlin. You’re looking well.”

“You’re... also looking well.”

“Come off it,” Harry chides. “They’re trying to be sneaky with the mirrors. I have a feeling my therapist is involved.”

“A sound deduction,” Merlin chuckles. “How are you feeling? I take it you’ve been filled in the rest of the way?”

“Starting to feel more myself. A perpetually tired version of him, and with all the strength of a child. Though I suppose a feeble old man is closer to the truth,” Harry smiles wryly.

“Nonsense. Spring chicken and all that,” Merlin says mock-seriously.

Harry ignores that. “And yes, I’ve been brought up to date.”

“And?” Merlin prompts.

Harry gusts out a sigh. “And I’m still at a loss for words honestly. What is there to say?” He scrubs a hand over the scars on his forehead which are prone to bouts of terrible itchiness. “I imagine there is a lot more to the story from our side.”

“Yes,” Merlin admits. “Though it may be a while before it’s de-classified for you...”

Harry smiles tiredly. “I figured as much. It’s alright.”

Merlin hesitates, looking away from his computer for a moment before saying, “There’s tapes, Harry. For when... for when you’re ready.”

Harry nods mutely.

Merlin changes the topic to Harry’s recovery plan. They are good at this, well-practiced: It’s not the first time Harry has woken up after weeks or even months, though never for this long and under such... morbid circumstances. Harry silently admires Merlin’s ability to reassess and adapt.

It’s not long before the conversation touches on something Harry has been trying to get an answer out Dr. Yan about for the last three days: “- get taken care of when you return, of course,” Merlin is saying.

Harry takes his chances. “And when might that be?”

Merlin opens his mouth to answer and shuts it, tries again. “I’m afraid it’s going to be a while, old friend. Unfortunately certain departments of Kingsman without access to the intel we had were in possession of Valentine’s SIM cards. The medical department was one of them. We’re actively recruiting across many departments to fill the gaps but it will be a while still until we build a team suitable for your needs of recovery.”

Harry feels as if his chest cavity deflates, the air leaking out of him like a flattened balloon. He’d been dreading this.

“Our focus- _my_ focus is on getting you back on your feet as fast as possible and I’m sorry to say that the place that’s going to facilitate that best is right where you are. Dr. Yan is the best neurologist the country has to offer and she and her team are unparalleled to anything we could provide you with here. In return we are lending them a few of our intelligence agents. Ours were luckily unscathed, but theirs were hit very hard.”

“I understand,” Harry says, doing his utmost to keep the bitter, sulky tone out of his voice and handle this like an adult.

“Harry, it’s alright to be upset,” Merlin says softly. “I’m upset. I’m angry. I want you back here just as much as you want to be back. But you _will_ be back.” His voice is firm.

Harry swallows and nods, taking a deep breath. Embarrassed by such a display of vulnerability, he averts his gaze, lands upon his fingers which are idly twiddling the pen with which he had been writing. 

“How-” It bursts out before he can stop himself. He cuts himself off with an audible click of his jaws.

But Merlin, the clever bastard, already knows exactly what he’d been about to ask, as if he’d just been waiting for it to slip out all along. “Harry look at me.” Harry does as he’s told. “Eggsy is alive. He’s well.”

Relief floods Harry’s body, tension he didn’t realize he was carrying immediately flushing from his joints. “What-... Where is-” He doesn’t know what he’s trying to ask, or which of the thousand questions frothing behind his teeth he should ask first.

Merlin smiles fondly, answers them without needing to be asked at all. “He was with us. He’s still with us. He was the hero of the day, Harry, bloody well saved us all. You’d have been so proud of him. I tried to tell him, but it made him look ill. Or like he wanted to hit me. Or both.”

Each of Merlin’s words feels like a balm on some hidden bruise. “Is he alright? Is he doing alright?” 

“He’s... he’s getting by. He misses you something fierce, took your death very hard.”

There’s a mountain behind those few words that Harry can feel Merlin trying to block from view, but Harry’s too relieved to delve further right now. “But he’s alive. And safe.”

“Yes.”

“You said he’s with you? How?”

Merlin sighs and breaks the news about Chester King’s betrayal, a dagger through Harry’s heart. Chester was the one who nominated him, a father-figure for decades. Another loss. He doesn’t regret his death, however, feels ferociously proud of Eggsy for seeing through him and turning the tables.

“So he’s an agent?”

“Not yet. The Arthur position needs to be filled first.” He holds a hand up to Harry’s disbelieving scoff. “It’s in the works.”

“Who’s likely?”

“Edward.”

Harry pauses for a moment, contemplative, before humming in approval. “A good choice. He’s a good man.”

“Loyal,” Merlin supplies, tellingly.

Harry agrees, before asking, “But Eggsy will be knighted?” 

“If all goes accordingly. He’s earned it. There’s a couple grumblers but nobody can deny his worth at this point. And he’s clever, street smart. We need that despite what they think.”

“What position?”

“Tristan, I think. We lost him during the Massacre.”

“Not Galahad?”

“Eggsy would never agree.” Merlin says, and there is a lot to be read between the lines here. “Harry, I should warn you that we’ve all grieved and let go. There was a funeral, over three months ago. There’s a headstone in a cemetery above a grave with an empty casket.”

Harry’s heart aches at the thought of Eggsy sitting in a pew in a bespoke black suit listening to a man talk about Harry as if he knew him. Harry thinks about him standing at a grave bearing his name watching another empty casket lowered into the wet, dark earth.

_you think I’ve got anything to lose?_

“I think there’s a part of him that still hopes he’ll walk into HQ one day and you’ll be sat in your usual seat at the table,” Merlin is saying, unaware of Harry’s mental stall. He shakes himself out of it.

“Well I suppose he’ll get his wish,” he tries to joke, but it’s brittle and stilted. Merlin smiles because he is a good friend.

“We should talk about that.”

“What?”

“How to... broach the news.”

“Oh.” Harry hasn’t thought about it yet, but he immediately knows, “I want to tell Eggsy. It needs to be me.”

Merlin shakes his head. “You can’t just ring the lad up. He’ll think he’s finally gone off the deep end and lost his mind, hearing your voice or hallucinating you on a bloody tablet screen.”

“Merlin, it has to be me,” he says as firmly as he can. “Please. As my friend, Mark.”

Merlin shuts his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose under the frame of his glasses. “For Christ’s sake, Harry, I’m not telling the entire department and keeping it from him. The boy will murder me. And then every person who knew and kept it from him. It’s cruel.”

“Then don’t,” Harry says simply. “They all think I’m dead, you say they’ve all carried on just fine, so they can keep thinking I’m dead until I’m ready to return.”

Merlin shakes his head ruefully. “Still keeping secrets. Only difference is he’ll probably be more inclined to murder just the two of us.”

Harry quirks a crooked smile. “Well for the sake of the casualty rate, then. It’s better odds, wouldn’t you agree?”

 

* * *

 

Three weeks into his recovery, Harry is in the gym with a burly fellow named Cameron who is putting Harry through his paces on a weight machine. Harry is frustrated and his left hand trembles as he pulls forward on the handle, lifting two pathetically small weights on the pulley system behind his back. He is sweating with the effort.

“C’mon, Hart. You can do better than that. My grandma could do better than that.”

Harry knows how this works, knows he’s meant to be egged on, fired up, work harder. His grown-out hair sticks to the nape of his neck and a stray forelock drifts into his eyes and he’s suddenly had enough. He drops the weight and leaves the gym, ignoring Cameron’s calls of, “Hart? Hey, Harry!”

He finds Dr. Yan by barging into her office without knocking, clearly in the middle of a meeting with his therapist Dr. Turner, which is convenient. 

“Harry,” Dr. Yan blinks.

“I want a haircut, a razor, and a fucking mirror.”

He gets all three, as it turns out. First, he is sent to their staff barber who trims his hair and shaves his beard. Feeling less like a vagrant and more like at least an approximation of a gentleman, Harry returns to his ward to find Dr. Turner waiting for him in one of the two armchairs, a hand-held mirror face down over his crossed knees.

“You look well, Harry. Have a seat.” He motions to Harry’s hospital bed instead of the seat beside him.

Harry gingerly perches himself on the bed. He wants to get it over with. It’s been long enough that he has built a picture of his own face in his head which is hideous deformed, though rationally he knows it not to be true. Harry rather suspects that was the point of all this: expect the worst and be you’ll find reality much more palatable.

“Are you ready?” Dr. Turner asks.

“For Heaven’s sake Jeremy, it’s a bloody mirror. Don’t be so dramatic- this is hideously transparent even for you Americans.”

The psychologist chuckles and passes Harry the mirror.

His immediate reaction is that it’s still better than he expected, and it’s more than a little annoying to know that such an obvious example of reverse psychology was so effective on him. He carefully examines his face, focusing on the small spiderwebbing of scars above his left eyebrow where the bullet entered. He touches it gently.

“We expect that will fade mostly with a few months time. You have our brilliant plastic surgeon to thank for that,” Dr. Turner says.

“An area of expertise I’m rather unsurprised to see you American doctors excel in,” Harry murmurs dryly, not taking his eyes off the mirror.

“Oh please,” the other man snorts.

There is a fine line that cuts through his eyebrow now, which he finds he quite likes in an ironic sort of way, as well as an angrier red scar that radiates away from the entry site, along his temple, and disappears into his hairline. Harry will admit to vanity being one of his personal shortcomings. He runs his finger delicately along the scar, can feel the small ridges where the suture sites are still in the process of relaxing.

“And this?”

“It will also fade, though I imagine there will always be a small scar. Wouldn’t want you to go home without at least one souvenir of your time stateside.”

Harry heaves a put-upon sigh. “I suppose I’m getting too old for the honeypots anyway.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Dr. Turner admonishes lightly. “If anything your chances of success will improve. Chicks dig a scar,” he drawls.

Harry quirks an eyebrow at the man, glancing at him briefly out of the corner of his eye but otherwise not responding.

“Boys too, I’m sure,” Dr. Turner muses with faux casual contemplation, studying his nails. 

“Do piss off, Jeremy.”

 

* * *

 

Progress comes in small bursts over long weeks. After the first week Harry graduated from the walker and Dr. Yan brought him a cane, which while better than the walker, did very little for improving his mood. Another three weeks he relied on it before the young man overseeing his mobility progress deems him fit to walk on his own. He has regained his fine motor skills and after a month working with Dr. Yan his tremor only surfaces when he is excessively frustrated or stressed. He tries to be patient. At best, in his field of work, it is an obvious tell. At worst, a career-ending handicap. He tells himself that it will resolve in time.

He works hard. Tells himself whenever he feels like phoning it in or giving up that the harder he works the sooner he’ll be back where he belongs. His therapists all have to remind him constantly to be mindful of limits.

He talks to Merlin on a near daily basis. He doesn’t have to admit that he’s horribly lonely; the Statesmen staff are all perfectly nice people- friendly, kind, genuinely helpful- but Harry longs for home, finally admits to himself that he is homesick about two months into recovery. Which is utterly trite and ridiculous as he has spent exponentially longer durations in the field with a fraction of the comforts and socializing he receives while recovering. 

Merlin keeps him abreast of the goings-on at Kingsman HQ. The recruits are coming along nicely, a few standouts in the abnormally large group. Roxy is excelling in her position as the new Lancelot. They’ve finally got their staff numbers back up to standard size. The selection process for the new Arthur is narrowing. 

They also talk about smaller, trivial things. Six weeks in, Merlin has a brilliant new second-in-command, Christopher, and he’s an arrogant prick but Merlin has plans. “Just needs to be broken in... bit like a horse, really” he muses, and Harry laughs and wishes he was there to watch. Merlin is always highly creative in his methods of teaching respect. At 8 weeks success with Christopher still eludes him, but Merlin is distracted by the R&D department which managed to “melt the bloody bomb test chamber, Harry. They managed to fucking _melt_ it.” A week after that all is forgiven when they present Merlin humbly with a remotely activated tracker that is undetectable to any known scanning devices, near-invisible to the naked eye, able to organically adhere both internally and externally, and records audio as well as emitting a GPS signal for a whole week straight. Two weeks later he is livid with his new protégé after a prideful miscalculation results in Percival being kidnapped and tortured for 32 hours. Two days later he is mollified by Percival’s safe return in good health, and two days after that Merlin delightedly informs Harry that he has managed to make Christopher cry like a schoolboy.

Harry doesn’t have to ask about Eggsy; Merlin keeps him abreast of that too.

Eggsy has moved his mother and sister into a lovely house beside Primrose. 

Eggsy has saved the Queen of England for the second time this month.

Eggsy has failed spectacularly on his first honeypot.

Eggsy has given Christopher a black eye for being a contemptuous little twat while on duty as Eggsy’s handler resulting in him getting frustrated and botching the mission and has been suspended for two days (“with pay, mind you. The little shit did deserve it.”).

Eggsy turns 26. He has grown close enough to some of the other knights such as Gwaine and Kay to invite them to his mother’s house to celebrate with his family. Roxy is there of course, and Merlin, Jamal, Ryan and a handful of the handlers and other staff members with which he has made friends. Eggsy gets too drunk and Merlin finds him in the small garden behind the house crying about Harry. He ends up being sick all over Merlin’s new boots and JB eats it before they can stop him. Harry’s heart aches between laughing at the story.

Merlin does not tell him that Eggsy is living in Harry’s home. Not yet. 

Eggsy misses Harry every day, he doesn’t say.

 

* * *

 

“Well, Harry. I do believe our work is done here,” Dr. Yan smiles warmly, eyes crinkling.

It has been exactly five months, 10 days and six hours since Harry woke up drowning. He is sitting in Dr. Yan’s orderly office with the doctor herself, Dr. Turner, Mr. Blake, and his lead physical therapist Dr. Bramford. 

Harry extends his hand to each of them in turn. “I can’t express how much I owe all of you,” he says sincerely. “Thank you so much for your hospitality. Kingsman will never forget it, and neither will I. If you ever need anything, anything at all...”

“It’s been our pleasure, Mr. Hart.” Mr. Blake drawls, accent thick and sweet with good humour. “I hope we never need to take you up on that.”

They file out. Dr. Turner catches Harry’s shoulder as he turns to leave. “Don’t forget that there is still work to be done, Harry. I trust you’ll be in good hands at home but... if you ever need to talk-... Well you know how to reach me.”

Harry pulls him into a firm hug. “Do try and control your hysterics, Jeremy. You’re embarrassing everyone.”

Dr. Turner pushes him off with a fond eye roll. “Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles.

Harry gives him one last crooked smile and leaves.

He’s going home.

 

* * *

 

Merlin sends the Kingsman jet to bring Harry home, is able to do so without anyone the wiser, making use of his Arthur-powers during his final few days as interim leader of Kingsman, Harry understands. Folding himself into the comfy seats of the familiar space is a small homecoming on its own, and Harry savours the feeling. The genuine delight and anticipation he feels take up residence in his belly when he hears the engines turn on is something he hasn’t experienced since he was a child, before planes stopped being exciting.

Upon reaching cruising altitude, Merlin calls in.

“Homeward bound,” is his greeting, grin stretched wide on his handsome face.

“Feels like Christmas Eve,” Harry confesses.

Merlin smirks. 

“Oh please don’t.” Harry cuts him off in mock-exasperation. “Low hanging fruit and all that.”

“You have no idea what I was going to say.”

“Knowing you, I can imagine several things and they are each more crude than the last.”

Harry asks to go over the plan, recites it from memory. To avoid having to sneak around and the potential of a premature discovery, the jet will land commercially at Luton where Merlin will personally pick him up and escort him home to Stanhope Mews. Tomorrow Merlin will arrange for Harry and Eggsy’s paths to cross. Once that has been... taken care of, they will decide on the best way to bring Harry back into HQ.

He notices that Merlin begins to look more discomfited as Harry goes on. Sensing something is not right, Harry narrows his eyes sharply at the screen. “What’s happened.”

Merlin makes a face, a sort of a grimace. “I apologise for this. Ahead of time. I kept putting off telling you, thinking it could wait and now here we are and I might as well spit it out, I suppose.”

Harry arches an eyebrow sardonically, gestures expansively for Merlin to go ahead.

“Eggsy has been living in your house, Harry.”

Harry blinks. “I see.”

Merlin looks distinctly apprehensive, clearly unsure of Harry’s response.

“I do hope you weren’t planning on letting me discover this by literally walking in on him,” Harry inquires mildly. “Bit rude, Merlin, for both Eggsy and myself. Or do you think I deserve it?”

“Of course not. I just... wasn’t sure how to tell you.”

Harry nods distractedly, gaze drifting away past the screen in contemplation. He rests the pad of his thumb against his lips in though, leaning his elbow on the armrest.

“Are you upset?” Merlin asks cautiously, trying to gage Harry’s reaction.

“No, just...” he trails off. “For how long?”

Merlin has the good grace to wince, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. “Er, from the start I guess.”

“I see,” Harry says again, though he doesn’t think he does.

“Yes. Well.” 

Harry lifts his gaze back towards the screen. “Can I ask why?”

“Well,” Merlin begins hesitantly, “I would imagine he finds it comforting. He was... is... very, uh, fond of you, Harry.”

_you think I’ve got anything to lose?_

Harry flinches, tries to make it as small as he can, and massages the sharp pain in his temple.

“He doesn’t live with his mother and sister?”

“No. I did not recommend it. I thought it would be easier for him to leave the lying to a minimum to his family.”

“Hmmm,” Harry hums, then sighs and says, somewhat reproachfully, “I get the feeling you’ve been holding out on me, Mark. You don’t need to protect me, I’m just fine.”

Merlin sighs and tells him.

 

* * *

 

Harry Hart returns home after 10 months 11 days and two hours. He has changed on the flight home into one of his suits Merlin had been kind enough to send, familiar, a comforting layer of armour in more than one sense. He has no luggage, just a neat leather briefcase. Merlin wishes him luck with a steady hand on his arm, will see him the next day, and drives away. 

Harry stands with his hand on the handsome brass doorknob of 11 Stanhope Mews for exactly four minutes and 22 seconds before taking a deep breathe, turning the key in the lock with his free hand, and twisting the knob. It opens, muted but warm light flooding the doorstep. Harry steps inside.

Nothing is changed. Ten months and the only signs of a second inhabitant in his home are minuscule: a pair of obnoxiously white Adidas sneakers placed neatly beside the shoe rack. A single hook on the coatrack overloaded with two jackets, a blazer and a warm navy overcoat. A baseball cap hangs precariously on top of it all. A laptop accompanied by a still-steaming mug on the coffee table in the sitting room. Harry notes with a faraway sense of amusement that Mr. Pickles has been shrouded in a pillow sheet like some slumbering Edwardian sculpture in a dusty unused stately home. He sets his briefcase quietly down.

Footsteps come from the second floor, a wary voice calling out, “Merlin? That you, bruv?”

His voice after so long is like an arrow through the chest, wounding. 

Harry belatedly realises the inherent flaw in seemingly breaking into the home of a well-armed and temperamental special agent just as Eggsy’s socked feet come into view at the top of the stairs. Shit. Probably should have rang the doorbell. Before he has time to think of a back-up plan Eggsy is pounding down the stairs, Harry aware that his own lower half will be coming into view slowly as well.

“What the- who the _fuck_ d’you think you-” He cuts off abruptly with a choked off sound of his throat closing.

All the carefully-thought-out lines Harry had come up with to first say to Eggsy during the flight scatter immediately when Eggsy’s adrenaline-flushed face comes into view. He is wearing a soft pair of sweatpants and a plain white tee and he’s got a handgun trained directly on Harry’s face.

“Eggsy,” is all that comes out.

The effect it has is instantaneous. Eggsy goes white as a sheet, the gun slipping dangerously from his fingers to land (thankfully) safely on the landing a few steps below him. His mouth shapes into the ‘w’ to ask “what” but all that comes out is a soft “whu-” sound before his his mouth drops open again.

“Fuck,” he does eventually manage to get out, faintly, and Harry sees Eggsy wobble, hand going out to steady himself on the railing but it’s too late. Eggsy’s is hand is slipping off the banister and he is slumping, somehow graceful even in this, onto the stairs in a faint.

“Fuck,” Harry echoes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol sorry oop ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> I promise this fic won't all be this angsty.
> 
> Some links:  
> my tumblr: https://ibbywrites.tumblr.com/  
> Chapter moodboard/aesthetic board [here](https://ibbywrites.tumblr.com/post/166251316119/moodboardaesthetic-board-for-manners-maketh-man)  
> Original characters headcasting [here](https://ibbywrites.tumblr.com/post/166278595774/chapter-2-oc-headcasting-if-anyone-is-curious-as)


	3. Intro Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JESUS GOD this was tough to write I'm so sorry it took so long. It got accidentally deleted at about 5k words once and then large swathes rewritten multiple times after that.
> 
> I hope it's not shit.
> 
> Special thanks to my beta blue and my britpick randomactsofviolence as always. Also I'm in the market for a total hardass beta who's down for a quick turn-around. If that sounds like you, pls message me on tumblr (ibbywrites)

  
[](http://tinypic.com?ref=2pr9o1x)

Eggsy wakes to the disorienting feeling of weightlessness. _No_ , he realizes, gravity slanting precariously; he’s being carried. He opens his eyes. The familiar landmarks of the front hallway and sitting room drift by as he blinks his vision steady. There are long fingers cradling him against a broad chest, an arm tucked under and around his knees, bridal style. Eggsy looks up at the face that hovers above his and the full-bodied jerk that runs through him is entirely involuntary.

Harry Hart.

Harry _fucking_ Hart.

Eggsy feels reality tilt wildly, feels that familiar swoop of nausea, feels like he might pass right back out. Without realizing he has done so, he writhes his way free of the arms wound around him and finds himself staggering on his feet, somehow managing to stay on them as he backs frantically away from the apparition in front of him.

 _Well, this is it,_ comes the frenzied thought. _This is what you get for refusing to deal with this. You’ve fucking lost it, mate._

“Eg-”

He cuts it off. “What the _fuck_!?”

The man in front of him takes a step forward and Eggsy scrambles back again, has to put as much space between him and this... this hallucination as possible. He bumps against the wall and presses himself to it, shoulder to hip. There are sirens and alarms and buzzers all wailing deafeningly in his ears, an almighty klaxon that drowns out whatever words that horribly familiar mouth is shaping. He’s shaking his head desperately, warding him off with an outstretched hand, fingers contorted into a claw. Eggsy is remotely aware that his breathing is laboured, bordering on hyperventilation, and that he is teetering on the cusp of a panic attack.

Eggsy can hardly look at him, his eyes are searing. It’s like looking at the sun, shadows and echoes bouncing after his focus as he tries to avert his gaze, because his brain can’t make any _sense_ of what his eyes are taking in. He takes in separate details with every wincing glance: Harry, in an all-too-recognisable pinstripe suit, striped tie, matte oxfords gleaming dully in the muted light. He is tall, just like Eggsy remembers, his suit hugs into the sharp, tapered V of his waist just like Eggsy remembers, and his legs go on forever, just like Eggsy remembers. His hair is perfectly coiffed, his jaw perfectly smooth, and he is wearing softly squared frames under furrowed brows. All the familiar, cherished lines of his face are drawn in, knit tight with concern. Eggsy feels his heart break all over again.

“Please,” he gasps, has no idea what he's asking.

It spurs Harry forward, ignoring the defensive hand and stepping into Eggsy’s personal space, broadcasting clearly his intent to embrace him. But Eggsy _can’t_ and his fight or flight response finally kicks in. He’s already backed against the wall, so before he even makes the conscious decision to, his fist is swinging in a reeling arc. It’s too obvious, barely glances on Harry’s jaw as the man sways backwards, Eggsy’s fist skidding off and throwing him off balance. Harry doesn’t retaliate, though. Eggsy takes wild swing after wild swing but after the first grazing blow Harry seems to just absorb all of Eggsy’s inertia, twisting and rolling gracefully to avoid the swings or catching Eggsy’s fists deftly before Eggsy yanks them away, winding up again. It’s infuriating at first, flailing against Harry as ineffectual as a gnat buzzing irritably against Harry’s fortress of calm. 

“Fuck you!” Eggsy spits viciously. 

All of Eggsy’s training, his time in the marines learning to stand up for himself, the last two years of his life learning to be lethal with his bare hands, all of it falls away. Eggsy is 8 years old again, 10, 12, thrashing uselessly against the brutality of any number of boyfriends and stepfathers who bulldozed their way through his youth. 

He still doesn’t quite believe that this is real - that it isn’t a mental construct - the last straw broken in the flimsy supporting armour Eggsy has bulwarked around himself. Because _how_ can this be real? Eggsy’s not religious, has never stepped foot in a church except for the odd wedding and christening he’d been forced to attend, sat awkwardly in the pews feeling like he’s never belonged somewhere less. But he has prayed every single day for 10 months that Harry would walk through the front door, unscathed and whole. Now that it’s happening, it feels less like a miracle and more like madness. It’s not fucking _possible_. Because if it’s real, that would mean Harry’s been alive all this time and nobody fucking _told_ him and Eggsy doesn’t know if it’s worth it to have Harry back if it turns out he’s been lied to, made a fool of while he fucking _fell apart_.

“Fuck! You!”

Except that Eggsy would trade anything in the world to have Harry back.

“Fuck!” he shouts, ragged.

He can feel the fight draining out of himself and so must Harry. The next punch he throws, Harry catches with a hand curled firmly around Eggsy’s wrist. He struggles, tries to use his other hand to pry the grip off, but somehow those long fingers encompass both wrists, binding them together, immobile. Harry is pulling him forward by his grip, against his chest, Eggsy resisting, feeling half feral. 

“Eggsy,” it’s a command, and Eggsy is helpless, looks up through the tears swimming in his eyes at Harry’s face inches from his own.

It’s then that he notices the webbing of scars radiating from his temple, silvering with age already. There is the puckered starburst of a bullet wound above his left eyebrow, a fine incision leading down towards his eye though the eyebrow, and another forking like lightning along his temple, disappearing and blending with the smallest threading of silver beginning at his temple. Eggsy feels something crack inside his chest as reality comes crashing down.

He’s not hallucinating.

It must show on his face, the realization. “Oh, darling,” Harry breathes.

“Fuck,” Eggsy moans brokenly, feels his face crumpling.

Harry’s face smears in his vision, tears finally overflowing. He feels a hand slide around him, settling low on his spine, lets it pull him the last few inches forward till he is wilting, disintegrating onto Harry’s chest. The hand strokes firmly up his back to the nape of his neck, gently urging his head into Harry’s sternum, cheek smudged on his prominent collarbone, top of his golden head tucked securely under Harry’s chin. Eggsy cries and swears, has no idea what is coming out of his mouth because there’s only one thing echoing thunderously in his head. 

_Harry. Harry. Harry._

He’s sobbing and he’d be embarrassed if he had any capacity left over in himself to feel anything but this appalling, nerve-searing white noise. He feels empty and brimming all at once. His nose is pressed into the elegant notch between Harry’s collarbones under his flawless windsor knot and he inhales the smell of him shamelessly with shuddering, hitching breaths between fits of sobs. He smells familiar in a way that has been missing from the cologne Eggsy still sprays onto the shirt, the sheets and pillows, himself when he’s sure he’ll be left alone. His hands, sandwiched between their chests, flex above Harry’s grip and Harry finally lets go of his wrists. Eggsy’s fists curl into the thick lapels of Harry’s suit. Harry’s hand cards into the wild disarray of Eggsy’s hair, stroking his scalp soothingly as the other rubs gentle circles between his shoulder blades, easing the convulsive tremors that wrack Eggsy’s body when he tries to suck in a breath.

“Breathe, Eggsy. Shhh,” Harry instructs. 

Eggsy can feel the bass of his voice in the low murmur, can feel it rolling straight into his chest where it is pressed against Harry’s, feels it flooding through his body, into his joints, collecting into the tips of his fingers and toes. Eggsy thinks about never hearing that voice again, trying to resign himself to it, to accept that the tone and cadence of it were lost to him. He thinks about drinking himself into oblivion one night after weeks in this house, thinks about finally curling his fingers around the cold edges of the tablet, thinks about watching hours and hours of archived footage and listening to that voice, knowing this was all he had left of it.

“God- What-...” he chokes out against the starched refinement of Harry’s shirt.

Harry shushes him again. Eggsy thinks he hears something like, “I’ve got you,” and possibly, “oh darling,” again but he can hardly make anything out over the roaring of his own blood through his veins, the galloping of his own heartbeat. He tries to focus on the fingers in his hair, the hand stroking his spine, the rise and fall of Harry’s chest, impossibly, astonishingly solid under his cheek. He knows his ear is right over Harry’s heart, that if he can just calm down he’ll be able to hear it; Proof that Harry is incontestably alive and real. But the fractured sobs that continue to bubble up from his chest won’t be swallowed down, and he feels wrecked. Strung out and stretched desperately thin, his fragile, tissue-paper skin only just keeping him from flying apart, crumbling, dissolving into nothing at all.

 

* * *

 

The knowledge that he is in bed is already in his consciousness before he is fully awake. Eggsy doesn’t forget, knows exactly what happened, knows he had cried himself out and collapsed, exhausted into strong arms, knows what the sloping weight on the mattress beside him is. It takes courage, drawing in a trembling breath, still shaky though he has clearly exhausted the tears, to open his eyes. When he does, the prior knowledge that Harry’s perched on the edge of the bed next to him doesn’t diminish the way his heart skips and then thuds painfully, lodged somewhere anatomically absurd. 

Harry is smoothing his hair off his forehead and gazing down at him with a look that is physically painful for Eggsy to observe. A detached part of him, a small voice in his head, is reminding him that he should be _happy_ that Harry is alive and well. But Eggsy can’t decipher what it is he’s feeling. Paralyzed, mostly. Dumbfounded. 

He squeezes his eyes shut, steeling himself, and tries to sit up. He is gently pushed back down by a hand splayed on his chest, broad square palm warm through his t-shirt. Eggsy blinks up at Harry and his brain clears as if on cue, as if all he needed was something to centre him. The questions flood his head like a torrent.

_How are you alive?_

_What happened?_

_Where have you been?_

_Why did no one tell me?_

_Did you tell them not to?_

_Did you want to?_

_Did you miss me half as much as I missed you?_

What comes out instead is, “How?” and really, that pretty much covers it all anyway.

Harry opens his mouth. Closes it. Eggsy has never seen him hesitate before, always so self-assured and smooth. Harry takes a moment and Eggsy can practically see the wheels turning, gears shifting.

Whatever Eggsy is expecting, it’s not the wry twist of the corner of Harry’s mouth accompanied by, “Lesson number 122, Eggsy: Always check the body.”

There’s a moment of silence where Eggsy feels completely thrown, but it’s cut short by a bark of laughter that bursts from his own throat without his permission. Something in Harry’s eyes positively melts at it, tension leaking out of the set of his neck and shoulders and his mouth curls into something warmer, more genuine, and Eggsy feels like he might burst into tears again when Harry’s cheeks dimple ever so slightly. _God_.

The smile is brief, Harry sobering almost immediately though his expression remains soft, radiating with empathy. “Eggsy... you must know how sorry I am.”

And it’s as much of an admission as an apology. Eggsy swallows around the knowledge that he wouldn't be apologizing if he hadn’t done something that required one. It sticks in his throat, vocal chords clicking dry around it as he tries to force it down, accept it as his truth. 

“Please,” Eggsy croaks, and asks again, “What-... how?”

Harry takes a deep breath, fortifying, and starts at the beginning. He tells Eggsy what Dr. Yan and Mr. Blake had told him about his rescue. He tells Eggsy about the hospital, the surgeries, the coma. He tells Eggsy about waking up and finding out himself, of what Merlin told him, of what he did (Eggsy knows, of course, doesn’t know if Harry knows that). He tells Eggsy about the slow path through rehabilitation towards recovery. He tells him about talking to Merlin, and when Eggsy’s face flushes with anger, expression going murderous, because he wants so desperately to be able to blame Merlin and not Harry for the deception, Harry tells him that it was his choice, that he pushed Merlin into it.

He doesn’t lie. But there are things he leaves out, Eggsy can feel it. He skims over parts, glosses them over vaguely. Eggsy wants to ask, but the part of him that is most human, most kind, reminds himself that Harry hasn’t spent the last 10 months on idle vacation; he will be battling his own demons. 

When Harry finishes, Eggsy is quiet. He needs a moment or twenty to process. He still feels a lingering sense of fantasy clinging around him, afraid to really let himself believe. Eventually he sits himself up and Harry lets him, propping himself on his elbows before struggling into a sitting position. Somehow it feels _more_ confronting, more intimate to be mostly at eye-level with Harry, and he feels every careful inch between them. Eggsy scoots back till his spine is cushioned against the pillow that smells of Harry’s cologne. 

Belatedly, Eggsy realizes Harry must have carried him upstairs and put him in the bed. In _his_ bed. Eggsy feels a pit gape nauseatingly in the depths of his stomach, instantly aware of what this must look like. And what it looks like is exactly what it _is_ , isn’t it? Fucking _hell_. Sure, Eggsy had prayed on the daily for Harry’s return, but hadn’t actually _expected_ it. Would have put a clause that could he please have a chance to erase his footprint from Harry’s home if he’d thought it was even vaguely possible, much less _probable_. 

He visually sweeps the room, feels the flush creeping up his chest. His footprint has been purposefully small, but you don’t live somewhere for 10 months and not have a few things of your own around. The book he is reading is laying split open beside the reading glasses on the bedside. His watch, cufflinks, and signet ring rest on the plump velvet cushions next to Harry’s in the closet where Eggsy’s _suits_ hang next to Harry’s. And it won’t escape him, Eggsy knows, that most of them fucking _match_ , right down to the exact fabrics and cut. Eggsy’s ties are not hanging in the closet next to Harry’s because Eggsy has been fucking well using _Harry’s_. The white shirt, even more soft and worn than it had been 10 months ago, lays carefully draped on the wrong arm of the chair, the bottle of cologne on the dresser more than half empty where it had been clearly, obviously new before.

Not to mention that fact that Harry did not take him up to the guest bedroom, he brought him here, to the master bedroom, where someone has clearly been living and sleeping in his _own fucking bed _.__

__Eggsy has a wild thought of the amnesia dart primed and convenient in his watch only a few metres away. He isn’t sure which of them he’d use it on. Shame they were single-loaded._ _

__Harry, of course, notices his distraction and the ruddiness creeping over Eggsy’s cheeks. “If you’re worried about it, don’t be,” he says kindly. “Merlin already told me. I’m not upset.”_ _

__“ _Jesus_ ,” Eggsy breathes, halfway between a groan and a whine. “That supposed to make me feel better, is it?”_ _

__Harry pats his knee reassuringly. “It’s really alright. When it comes to unhealthy coping mechanisms, this hardly even ranks on the list of things Merlin and I have witnessed in Kingsman over the years.”_ _

__Harry’s letting him off easy, Eggsy knows - giving him an easy out. He knows they’ll most likely return to it eventually, so he takes his chance now, accepts the olive branch for the peace offering it is._ _

__Which isn’t to say Eggsy’s forgiven him. He can still feel the glowing embers of anger in his belly. He’s furious, really, but he’s also so insurmountably _relieved_ that for now, the anger is eclipsed. Eggsy feels a dam break, and all the questions come cascading forward. Harry answers each of them, patiently, obliging. _ _

__

_* * *_

__  


__

__It is very late by the time Harry drains his third glass of scotch and and starts making noises about bed. Eggsy dithers in the dining room uselessly, fiddling with straightening up things that don’t need straightening while Harry washes the two delicate crystal glasses and sets them on the drying rack. Eggsy clears his throat awkwardly, says something about ringing a cab to take him back to Primrose, but is unceremoniously cut off by Harry scoffing and pointing out that there are two perfectly serviceable beds upstairs._ _

__Eggsy stiffly follows Harry up the stairs and stops mid-step as Harry enters the guest bedroom, waving Eggsy onwards down the hall. Eggsy protests, it’s _his_ fucking bed after all, but Harry won’t hear it, just goes about flicking on the the lights and fluffing up the pillows, blatantly ignoring Eggsy until he gives up and drags his feet down the hallway to the master suite, feeling extraordinarily stupid._ _

__He nearly chokes on the minty foam of his toothpaste when Harry wanders into the master ensuite shortly after, all casual nonchalance, and nudges Eggsy’s hip with his so he can access a drawer. Harry putters about in easy silence, collecting his toiletries while Eggsy watches him surreptitiously. He takes it back, he thinks: forget about church; Here, in Harry Hart’s master bathroom, with the man himself rummaging around gathering his toothbrush and razor, Eggsy has never felt more out of place in his life. Never felt more like an _intruder_._ _

__Eggsy hovers at the door before escaping to the closet to change into a pair of sleep pants. He thinks longingly of the soft button-down draped over the chair, but there is no way in _hell_ he’s wearing that to bed, feels mortified all over again. He’s exiting the closet just as Harry’s exited the bathroom and Eggsy catches his arm, blurting his name. _ _

__He means to say... well he’s not actually sure what he means to say. But it’s certainly not what comes out, which is ‘Stay,” and before he can shut himself up, “Please.”_ _

__He can’t help but wince, flinch at his own idiocy, internally cursing his lack of filter. Again, though, Harry is kind, takes pity._ _

__“Of course.”_ _

__Harry steps back into the bathroom with his armful, closing the door, and Eggsy crawls under the covers and buries his face in the pillow, wonders if it’s possible to successfully smother oneself. He hears Harry finish in the bathroom and the soft _click_ of the closet door closes. Deciding it’s not actually possible, though breathing a bit heavier for his efforts, Eggsy forcefully evens out his own breathing as Harry emerges and flicks off the overhead light. He pads around the bed to the far side which is uncreased and unused, and pulls back the covers to slide in._ _

__It’s a big bed, big enough that Eggsy can’t even feel the weight of the body across from his through the mattress. He takes a deep breath,_ _

__“I missed you.”_ _

__He can almost hear Harry’s crinkly smile, wonders if he stares hard enough into the dark perhaps he’ll be able to make out his dimples._ _

__“I missed you too, Eggsy. More than I can say.” His voice is warm and low, slightly rough with fatigue._ _

__“I’m afraid,” It’s barely more than a whisper, a benediction. “I’m scared when I wake up you’ll be gone and this won’t have been real at all.”_ _

__There is a pause, Eggsy holding his breath, and he listens for Harry’s and thinks he might be holding his, too. Then suddenly his hand is engulfed in warmth, Harry unerringly locating it in the darkness. Eggsy lets his hand be guided across the space between them. Dexterous, clever fingers spread his hand flat and press it down onto the warmth of Harry’s chest. Eggsy can feel the steady thrum of Harry’s heart through the softness of his sleep shirt. He closes his eyes as he feels one of Harry’s hands settle over his own, pressing it gently into himself. Eggsy falls asleep like that, exhausted both emotionally and physically, focusing in on the rhythm tattooed into the curve of his palm._ _

__

_* * *_

__

__

__Eggsy does not wake in panic the next morning to find the bed empty, it all having been a terrible dream. He does not wake in panic the next morning to an empty bed, but suddenly smells rashers and toast drifting up the stairs, distant clatter of pans and utensils._ _

__No, Eggsy wakes in the morning exactly as he drifted off last night: curled in a fetal crescent on his side with the measured thudding of Harry’s heart drumming against the meat of his palm. Harry’s hand has drifted off of his and his fingers are loosely coiled around his wrist and forearm, his index finger brushing gently back and forth across the protruding jut of his ulna. He’s awake, Eggsy realises, staring placidly up at the ceiling, not yet realising Eggsy’s return to consciousness._ _

__As if on cue, Harry’s head tilts towards his. “Good morning,” he hums, mouth curling into a small, fond smile._ _

__Warmth rushes through Eggsy’s veins, tingling down his limbs. He has to sit up, get his body moving, or else he’ll do something embarrassing. “Morning,” he croaks, voice raspy still from crying. He gently flexes his fingers over Harry’s chest, joints stiff and protesting. The fingers round his wrist tighten incrementally before relaxing, letting go, and Eggsy carefully withdraws his hand under the guise of a stretch and a yawn as he sits up._ _

__“So,” he says._ _

__“So,” Harry agrees. “I’m still here.”_ _

__Eggsy draws his knees up to his chest, circles his arms around them, a small protection. He can feel his mind torn in two between soaring, incandescent relief and the heavy, sinking anchor of mistrust. _Give it time,_ he tells himself._ _

__And Harry must have gained some telepathic powers due to his head injury because his hand brushes Eggsy’s ankle and he murmurs, “Give it time, Eggsy. Please.”_ _

__Eggsy can’t quite meet his eye when he says, “Now what?”_ _

__Harry stretches languidly, resembling nothing if not a big cat and Eggsy’s still has the remnants of that feeling of hardly being able to stand looking at him._ _

__“Now we tell the others,” he says, before turning back to Eggsy. “If that’s alright with you.”_ _

__Eggsy snorts in response, feels himself closing up and in on himself, the familiar armour sliding back into place. He is just fine. He learned how to be very good at being alone, and Harry’s whirlwind entry and exit from his life just served as a reminder that getting too close is dangerous, only leads to heartache._ _

__“Eggsy,” Harry says gently, and Eggsy reminds himself: _perceptive._ “It was very important to me that you be told first. It’s why I came here last night and not to HQ.”_ _

__“Yeah, well... thanks for that, cuz.” Eggsy mutters._ _

__“You’re allowed to be upset with me.”_ _

__“Oh, well, that’s good to know.” Eggsy can’t help himself. “That I’m _allowed_.”_ _

__“I understand.” Harry tries to soothe._ _

__“Do you?? Do you really, mate?” Eggsy snaps._ _

__Harry seems to swallow his reply, considering. “As best I can, yes. And I respect that you have every right to feel angry with me. I would be too.”_ _

__Eggsy snorts again, lips twisting in a humourless smirk. “Mint.” He pops the ‘t’ snidely._ _

__Harry sighs, gives Eggsy’s ankle a squeeze, and extricates himself from the linens. Eggsy sits petulantly with his chin atop his knees, pretending not to watch covertly out of the side of his eye the way Harry’s sleep shirt rides up when he stretches again, the way the drawstring of the pants sits low on his hips. _Shit_._ _

__“We’d best be getting a move on Eggsy. Don’t want to be late for the round table meeting,” he intones, making his way to the ensuite._ _

__“Wouldn’t want to spoil your grand entrance.” Eggsy grumbles, low enough that he thinks Harry might not have heard, though he doesn’t offer a response one way or the other._ _

__

_* * *_

__  


__

__He’s being a little shit. He knows it, and he can’t seem to help it. The car ride to Savile Row is spent in tense silence, Eggsy watching pointedly out the window and avoiding Harry’s eyes, arms crossed over one of the only suits hanging in the closet that wasn’t completely fucking mortifying in its emulation. His brain supplies a flash of a scene - dramatically bursting through the doors of the meeting in matching suits - and he has to urgently tamp down on the noise that threatens to bubble up, doesn’t know if it’s a laugh or a sob. He suddenly feels slightly delirious. Harry tactfully had not said a word when he’d emerged from the closet, clad impeccably in a double-breasted suit of dove grey, signature striped tie cinched to perfection around his throat. Eggsy had spent an embarrassing length of time waffling in indecision in the closet afterwards, eventually giving up and donning a simple deep blue suit and pulling one of Harry’s slender black ties off the rack. He had finally appeared in the kitchen at an hour bordering on making them late and Harry had shoved a piece of toast into his hand before ushering him out the door and into the waiting car._ _

__The car arrives, and they’re climbing the steps, Harry holding the door open for Eggsy and following him in when he remarks, ‘You know, this is the first time I’ve had the pleasure of seeing you clad in armour.”_ _

__Eggsy can’t help the way he stumbles slightly, can’t help the way his eyes go straight to Harry’s._ _

__Harry steals the opportunity to run a hand over the sharp angles of Eggsy’s shoulder, smoothing non-existent creases. “It certainly becomes you. You look very fine indeed,” he says primly, before carrying on past Eggsy towards the dressing rooms in the back._ _

__They get a startled look from Dagonet, Eggsy’s favourite of the head tailors, which is carefully schooled under the polished veneer of a polite nod and a gesture towards fitting room one. Eggsy fiddles self-consciously with his cuffs on the lift, adjusting the cufflinks and pulling the jacket down further over his wrists. It’s completely ineffectual; The suit is bespoke, of course, fits Eggsy like a glove. He hates himself a little for wishing he’d chosen a suit that was sightly sharper, one that made a bit more of a statement._ _

__Harry enters the train first, situating himself in one of the seats closest to the door, resulting in Eggsy having to either sit directly opposite him or having to climb over his long legs to a window seat. He does it anyways, just to be a brat, and sits himself next to Harry so he has the excuse to make as little eye contact as possible. The train speeds off and Eggsy does his best to distract himself, but the only thing his mind seems able to settle on is the knowledge that they’re about to officially induct the new Arthur and, by proxy, Eggsy. Or not. He feels slightly ill._ _

__Harry doesn’t bother trying to make eye contact, just settles a hand reassuringly on Eggsy’s thigh just above his knee and squeezes lightly. “You have nothing to worry about.”_ _

__“Yeah, right,” Eggsy says weakly._ _

__Harry leaves his hand there as the train speeds along, tunnel lights flicking by endlessly. The heat from his palm feels like a brand on Eggsy’s leg and he forces himself to stay still and not squirm, not brush it off. He’s startled when Harry sighs and his fingers clamp around his leg, pulling him in his seat so Eggsy is angled toward Harry._ _

__“You don’t have to talk to me, Eggsy. But I want you to listen to me here,” Harry’s eyes bore into his, pinning him like one of his butterflies. “You will be a Kingsman knight. There is no one who can deny your value to this organization. Unorthodox or not, you are one of us. You have the support of your friends. Mine as well, if I no longer count as a friend.”_ _

__Eggsy swallows thickly. Reassurances crowd his tongue - _of course you’re my friend, you complete prat_ \- but his jaw is clamped firmly shut._ _

__“I understand and respect that you are very upset with me,” Harry says, echoing his words earlier this morning. “I hope that eventually I am given the opportunity to earn back your trust. But either way, I will _always_ be here for you Eggsy,” he says fiercely._ _

__“Harry,” Eggsy says, if only to make him stop. He can feel his face reddening, his palms sweating into the fine wool of his suit where they lay flat on his own thighs, inches from Harry’s._ _

__“You must understand how proud I am of you,” Harry says with feeling, and Eggsy can’t help the small sound that escapes through his gritted teeth._ _

__He feels out of breath, winded, like he’s been running._ _

__“I don’t know what you’re worried will happen in that room, but I’m telling you right now that it will not happen. I won’t let it,” he finishes forcefully._ _

__Eggsy has no idea what to say to that. Harry is so rarely demonstrative, is always so carefully buttoned up and controlled. It feels like having the wind knocked out of him, being the focus of that intensity. He would say anything, in that moment, anything Harry wanted._ _

__“Alright, Harry, steady on,” Eggsy smiles feebly, because it’s the only thing he can do._ _

__Harry sits back in his seat, satisfied, releasing Eggsy from his gaze. “You have nothing to worry about,” he repeats._ _

__“I reckon I do, but...” Eggsy flounders. “But thanks. For the vote of confidence, I guess.”_ _

__He feels something loosen in himself, a screw unwind just a few turns. He can do this._ _

__

_* * *_

__  


__

__In the end, it’s not half as dramatic as Eggsy expects, which, alright, is more than a little embarrassing if he’s being honest. Most of the other field agents have already assembled around the table when Eggsy enters, Harry following at his heels nonchalantly, cool as you please. There’s a small commotion, sure, but nobody faints or cries or tries to take a swing at Harry. Eggsy is exceedingly thankful that their reunion happened in private._ _

__Harry receives a warm welcome, each of the knights taking a turn to shake his hand or clap him on the shoulder, exchanging pleasantries. Gwaine does slap Harry a little harder than necessary on the back when pulling him into a friendly hug, mumbling gruffly, “Thought you’d give us a scare did you?” and Kay cheerfully announces that Harry is an “absolute bastard” and then compliments his scar. The surreptitious looks that are being thrown his way don’t escape Eggsy. Roxy keeps darting him concerned glances, brows knit with worry, trying to catch his eye. He gives her a small shake of his head which he hopes conveys “not now”. Considering how present Roxy was in the messy aftermath of V-Day, Eggsy can’t really blame her; since then she’s scraped him up off the floor more than once._ _

__Eggsy turns his back on the buzz over Harry and approaches Merlin, schooling his features smooth as he notices the man watching him carefully from across the room. He can see the guilt writ clear across Merlin’s face as he draws level. Before he can say anything, Eggsy rushes out, “It’s alright.”_ _

__“Eggsy...” Merlin looks seriously doubtful._ _

__But now is not the time or place. “It is. Harry told me, it was his choice.”_ _

__Merlin seems to understand. His eyes narrow slightly at Eggsy but he nods and Eggsy can see Merlin put it away... for now. He’s sure they’ll be talking about this later. For now, though, there are other issues to deal with. Eggsy tries to compose himself with as much calm confidence as he can._ _

__“Should I stay for this or no?”_ _

__Merlin’s expression is apologetic. “Not for this, lad. Rules are clear: Knights only. But it shouldn’t take long. Once Arthur has been officially announced, we will call you back in to discuss your situation.”_ _

__“Right. ‘Course. I’ll just... I’ll just wait outside then?”_ _

__“Someone will come get you.” Eggsy turns to leave, but Merlin catches him by the upper arm lightly. Eggsy meets his eyes and Merlin gives him a small smile. “Try not to run the carpet bare- it’s original.” He sobers, says quietly, “You have friends here, Eggsy. We’ll fight for you, if it comes to it.”_ _

__Eggsy sends back an approximation of a smile, but his jaw is clenched tightly and he imagines it comes off more as constipation at best. He avoids the others’ eyes as he quietly slips out, edging round the walls of the room and out the heavy carved doors into the hallway. He nods to Percival as he rushes by, last to arrive. Harry appears at the doors to close them behind Percival and pauses a moment to say, softly, “Breathe,” with a small reassuring smile, and closes them._ _

__

_* * *_

__  


__

__Eggsy stopped biting his nails when he became an official candidate after Harry’s tutting over the state of them. “A gentleman takes pride in his appearance,” he had remarked archly, inspecting them, and had handed Eggsy a nail file._ _

__Waiting in the hallway, Eggsy presses the carefully manicured edges of them into the flesh of his palms, gritting his teeth with the effort not to strip them. What is surely only about fifteen minutes stretches into lifetimes. He feels himself starting to sweat and stops his pacing, closing his eyes and forcing himself to take a deep breath. He wipes his forehead carefully, removing his glasses to rub at his temples._ _

__The heavy doors are soundproofed, of course; Not that there was even anything going on in there at the moment that impacted his position. They all knew by that point that Edward was their new Arthur - the introduction was only a formality. Rationally, Eggsy knew this, but it really did nothing to calm his nerves._ _

__The thing is, Eggsy still has nightmares about being tossed out of Kingsman. He has vivid daydreams about sitting in his office only to have some faceless administrative puppet come in and inform him he is no longer needed, followed by a small army of minions entering and dismantling everything that makes the office his and escorting him out. Every time he stuffs up a mission or puts a toe out of line, he imagines Merlin aiming his watch at Eggsy, amnesia dart fixed and an apologetic look on his face, telling him, “Sorry Eggsy, but it looks like we made a mistake with you.”_ _

__He’s just about to try pressing his ear against the doors, juvenility be damned, when one swings open to reveal Harry. Eggsy stumbles on his step back, feels himself going red as Harry gives him a tiny knowing smirk before stepping to the side. He gestures for Eggsy to enter and ushers him through with a hand pressed lightly to the small of his back, which would be fucking _distracting_ if he wasn’t too busy feeling like his insides were liquifying and trying not to trip over his own two feet._ _

__“Remember what I said,” Harry murmurs in his ear as Eggsy passes._ _

__The hand is gone as quickly as it came, Harry pivoting to close the doors again and then returning smoothly to his seat near the head of the table. Eggsy stops at the end of the table closest to him, knows enough not to take a seat. He stands, feet shoulder width apart, hands meshed behind his back, and forces himself to relax into an easy, confident composure. He’s a fucking spy, after all - he can fake it._ _

__The man at the head of the table is familiar to Eggsy, if only for the fact that Eggsy has done everything he can to get a sense of what sort of person he is. Edward Berkeley is tall and neat, 62-years-old, and his jet black hair is only just going grey at his temples and the point of his widow’s peak. He’s handsome, Eggsy supposes, in a patrician sort of way. He exudes upper-class sensibilities but there is also a warmth there, and he offers Eggsy an encouraging smile. Eggsy likes the way his eyes twinkle, but he doesn’t trust him. Not yet._ _

__Merlin clears his throat from his seat opposite Harry. “Eggsy, this Kingsman’s newly appointed Arthur, Edward Berkeley.”_ _

__“Pleasure to meet you,” Eggsy says graciously, then, _manners maketh man_ and all that, adds on, “Sir.”_ _

__Harry raises an eyebrow at him._ _

__“Mr. Unwin,” Edward greets. “You hardly need an introduction.”_ _

__Eggsy gives a lopsided smile. “My reputation precedes me,” he says in his poshest tones and doesn’t miss the thinly veiled look Merlin shoots at Harry._ _

__“Well, as we haven’t had the pleasure of meeting till now, let me offer my thanks to you, for your heroic efforts last summer. We all owe a lot to you.”_ _

___But_ , Eggsy is waiting for._ _

__It doesn’t come._ _

__“Thank you for your patience these last 10 months. I realize it won’t have been easy, not knowing where you stand in the organization. You have been called here today to address this,” he intones formally. “Please take a seat and we may begin.”_ _

__Eggys does as he’s told, seating himself gingerly in the leather chair at the opposite end of the table from Edward. He folds his hands on the varnished wood of the table (it’s not even fucking _round_ ) and does his best to appear calm but not overconfident, tries not to let the numerous eyes turned his way intimidate him. He purposefully keeps his gaze directed towards the head of the table, expression open and pleasant._ _

__“As this is rather an unprecedented situation,” Edward begins, “I think our first step should be to discern whether any of us have reservations or recommendations regarding Mr. Unwin here assuming an official position as a Kingsman agent.”_ _

__Eggsy forces himself not to wince bracingly. He takes a deep breath and bows his head humbly in admission._ _

__They go around the table starting with Edward’s right, which is Merlin. “Eggsy has been an exemplary agent in his interim position.” Merlin says, sending Eggsy a small but affirming smile. “Despite his newness to the field, he has an uncommonly high success rate for a junior agent, as well as having to shoulder an unparalleled workload. He has shown ingenuity and loyalty to Kingsman time and time again. True, he’s a different sort than we usually see within our ranks, and there are some... traits he needs to work on cultivating and tamping down on,” A small smile as he scans the table, caught by Harry’s eyes. “But no more than any other man or woman in our midst. Mr. Unwin has my highest regards and my full support in this.”_ _

__Eggsy feels slightly short of breath. He works hard to keep his expression schooled, but can’t help the grateful look that steals across his features when Merlin meets his eye. Merlin nods once at him, and Eggsy nods back._ _

__As they continue round the table, the other agents mostly keep theirs short and sweet. Eggsy is praised for his competency in the field, his high success rate. Many of them echo Merlin’s sentiments regarding Eggsy’s ingenuity, and while a few express some concern for Eggsy’s tendency for unorthodox approaches, it is always tempered by admittance of the effectiveness of said approaches._ _

__It goes around till they reach Ector, seated three from Eggsy’s left. The man hesitates slightly, and Eggsy knows what’s coming, knew it before that hesitation from the months of appraising formality directed at him. He’s never been rude, Ector, but his manner towards Eggsy could never be called warm._ _

__“I will preface what I’m about to say with an acknowledgement of all the skills my peers have lauded Mr. Unwin with. I agree with mostly all of them, and I certainly don’t mean to say that I think Mr. Unwin is unfit to be a Kingsman,” He clears his throat. “However, I do have concerns with his... background.”_ _

__Eggsy bristles. He looks down and carefully refolds his hands on the table._ _

__“Would you care to be more specific, Ector?” Edward invites pointedly._ _

__“I can see where his knowledge of... a different sort of life than we’ve all lead,” (Eggsy notices a vein twitch in Merlin’s neck in his periphery,) “could certainly come in useful in certain situations. That being said, anyone is capable of brute force, which in my experience seems to be the skill set most often needed with such situations. It seems to me that where our training is really put to use is in missions which involve a high level of subtlety and subterfuge. We do tend to deal with a class of enemy in similar standing to our own...”_ _

__Eggsy has his mouth open to cut him off, but before he can speak Merlin’s clipped voice interrupts, “Be succinct, Ector. What are you saying here?”_ _

__Ector, a man with a penchant for verbosity, colours slightly and clears his throat again. “What I mean to say is that I am concerned that Mr. Unwin’s upbringing has not afforded him the same luxuries ours have, and therefor he lacks a certain set of skills that I feel are fundamental to the work and tradition of Kingsman. Is that succinct enough?” he says somewhat acidly to Merlin. “I want to reiterate, though, that I am not saying that I think Mr. Unwin should not be a Kingsman. I simply have... concerns.”_ _

__Edward looks thoughtful. “I see. Let’s carry on, shall we?”_ _

__Gwain goes next, gives Eggsy such a glowing and fierce endorsement that Eggsy manages to unclench his fingers, white knuckles slowly pinking up. Lamorak, on Eggsy’s direct left, also has many complimentary things to say, though he finishes it off with saying he does share Ector’s concerns. They pass on to the other side of the table where Kay outright calls them all a “bunch of priggish toffs” if they honestly think Eggsy’s upbringing would prevent him from being just as proficient as any of them._ _

__“The lad is twice the agent I was as a beginner,” he says gruffly, before adding on in a mutter, “and he’s twice the agent some of you will ever be.”_ _

__Eggsy can’t help but send him a grin, which the man returns with a wink._ _

__Beside Harry, Gareth frowns. “Really, Kay,” he says primly, admonishing._ _

__It continues on, Caradoc with a mixed review, Roxy with a fiery advocation, and so on, until they reach Gareth, who sits back in his seat nonchalantly, crossing his legs and studying his nails in casual boredom._ _

__“I have no issue with Mr. Unwin’s breeding. These affectations can be faked. My concern is simple: the boy didn’t pass the test.”_ _

__The table is a mix of reactions. Some brows are knit, some eyes are rolled, some keep their expressions carefully blank. But there are several who, reluctantly or eagerly, nod their heads._ _

__“Look,” Eggsy says before he can stop himself. The man was a prick. “I’m not going to apologize for not shooting JB. So if that’s what it takes, I-”_ _

__“If I may,” Harry’s voice rings out for the first time since Eggsy sat down, smoothly interrupting. Eggsy’s teeth close with a _click_. “I’d like to make a few points regarding that final test. Merlin, would it be possible to call up the footage of Lancelot’s test?”_ _

__Merlin shoots him a look, puzzled enough that Eggsy knows this wasn’t planned between the two of them. “Aye, give me a moment,” he says pulling out his tablet._ _

__Within the minute, Merlin, Roxy, and her poodle are on the screen. They watch as he invites her in, declines her request to sit in the wingback chair beside where Merlin asks her to leave the poodle, calling her to his side. He takes a moment to congratulate her reaching the test, praising her performance through the training period. He pulls the gun from his hip, butt first. Advises her that it’s live, and passes it to her. As she takes it, he tells her to shoot the dog. Her eyes widen in disbelief as she looks up at him. A long moment passes while she searches his face, arm still outstretched. Her eyes dart to the dog, measuring. Eventually she seems to come to a conclusion. Her grip tightens, lips thinning into a firm line, and she points gun at the dog and pulls the trigger. She doesn’t even wince. Eggsy isn’t sure whether to be impressed or revolted._ _

__Merlin cuts the feed at Harry’s wave. He rounds on Roxy. “Lancelot. Did you know the gun was loaded with a blank cartridge?”_ _

__“Yes,” Roxy replies, and Eggsy gapes at her. They’ve never talked about the dog test._ _

__“And how did you know?” Harry prompts_ _

__“Well,” she starts slowly, cautiously, aware of the room’s bemused attention on her. “After I got over my initial reaction, I tried to think of why Merlin would ask me to do that. About why that would be the final test to become a Kingsman agent. Obviously it was about loyalty, and on the surface, my first thought was unquestioning loyalty. But I trust Merlin. He wouldn’t ask me to do something like that without a reason. And as soon as I calmed down enough to remember that, I noticed the gun wasn’t weighted right, even if it only had one bullet. I double checked the distance he’d had me stand from-... from my dog, and I felt sure then that it was a bank.”_ _

__Harry nods in agreement. “Such was the point of the test, as we all know. Merlin, if you would be so kind to call up Eggsy’s test footage?”_ _

__Merlin does, and Eggsy watches with the rest of the room how Chester had called him in, ordered him into the seat opposite him and JB onto the plastic tarpaulin, bantered genially with him about JB, casually insulted him and praised him at the same time, pointed the gun at Eggsy and then told him to shoot JB. Harry lets the video roll until Chester orders Eggsy to go home, then motions to Merlin again._ _

__Eggsy looks curiously at Harry, but doesn’t miss the uncomfortable, angry, and questioning looks being thrown around the table. There are more than a few mutterings between neighbours._ _

__“Eggsy,” Harry says, purposefully using the familiar nickname, Eggsy knows. “Did you have any reason to doubt Chester King before he attempted to poison you?”_ _

__Eggsy frowns. “I mean... not to the extent that he was a lying traitor,” he says carefully._ _

__“Let me be more specific. Did you trust Chester King?”_ _

__“No,” Eggsy says easily._ _

__“Why not?”_ _

__“Clearly didn’t approve of me, did he? Hard to trust someone who clearly doesn’t trust you. Weren’t helped by pointing a gun in my face either, if I’m honest,” Eggsy tries to give a smile._ _

__That seems to be exactly what Harry was looking for. He turns back to Roxy. “And you, Lancelot. Did you trust Merlin, at the time?”_ _

__“Yes, of course,” she replies._ _

__Harry turns to Gareth. “Sir Gareth. How far away from the target must one be to assure it takes no damage from a blank cartridge?”_ _

__Gareth looks uncomfortable; Reluctant. “Three metres at the very least.”_ _

__“And how far would you say Chester had placed Mr. Unwin from his dog?”_ _

__Gareth looks down. Eggsy suspects it’s only Gareth’s impeccable breeding that prevents him from doing anything as crass as mumbling. “About three feet.”_ _

__Harry nods in satisfaction before turning his attention to the rest of the table. “I came across this footage while I was recovering and Merlin was sending me information so I could catch up on what I had missed. If it isn’t clear to everyone here by now, Mr. Unwin was set up to fail this test. Having all passed this test, we all know that the point of it is to demonstrate that trust is mutual and earned, not that a Kingsman is expected to follow orders indiscriminately. A Kingsman is expected to have a moral compass and to be able to think on his own. Following blind orders comes with the agent trusting the agency, not the other way around.”_ _

__Merlin takes the opportunity of Harry’s pause to add in, “I’d also like to note that Chester King requested he be the one to administer Mr. Unwin’s test.”_ _

__Harry nods again. “Chester, knowing Mr.Unwin’s misgivings about him, purposefully requested to be his juror. He manipulated him in the test, telling him outright that he hadn’t believed in him and found it shocking that he had made it so far, before turning the gun on him. None of which you can see Merlin doing to Roxy, and none of which any one of us were subject to either. He also purposefully placed the dog at point blank range, which is supposed to be one of the hints that helps the candidate make their decision. All this having been said, I feel it is deeply unfair for Mr. Unwin to be judged at this time in accordance to that incident._ _

__“As for myself, I give my full support in inducting Mr. Unwin as an official Kingsman agent. He has made me proud as his sponsor from the day I met him and every day since. He is his father’s son through and through, and we should be so lucky to welcome such a loyal, intelligent, and capable young man into our ranks,” he finishes smoothly._ _

__Eggsy has to willfully stop his mouth from hanging open, is aware that his face must be scarlet from the way his cheeks are burning. There are murmurs around the table again, and Eggsy is pleased to see that his nay-sayers look appropriately chagrined._ _

__“Well said, Galahad,” Edward compliments. “I happen to agree with him. It has become very clear that the final test was grossly mishandled by my predecessor and should not reflect on Mr. Unwin’s future with Kingsman.”_ _

__“Here, here,” Kay booms._ _

__“I believe there were still some valid concerns, however, and I feel it would be appropriate to ask Mr. Unwin to allow us the privacy to deliberate on a suitable resolution,” Edward says, though he tempers it with another encouraging smile that Eggsy tries very hard to take to heart._ _

__He pushes his chair back, getting to his feet. “Thank you for your consideration, sir,” he says respectfully, keeping the bitter clipped consonants that threaten to roll off his tongue rounded and polite. He leaves the room, but doesn’t miss the blink-and-you’ll-miss-it wink that Harry sends him just before Eggsy pulls the door shut._ _

__

_* * *_

__  


__

__“Fucking _bollocks_ ,” Eggsy hisses and gives up on meditatively closing his eyes and clearing his mind for the 12th time in the last 20 minutes._ _

__Aside from how his presence during that little pow-wow was entirely superfluous, Eggsy can’t imagine how much more there could _possibly_ be to discuss in private behind the closed door. This time, at least, Edward had courteously shown Eggsy through to the small drawing room office off the round table room where he was afforded a leather club chair tucked next to a fireplace. Eggsy gets to his feet for the umpteenth time and leans against the window, tracing the delicate leaded geometric lines of the came. Outside, the recruits are jogging around the track. Their dogs are fully grown for the most part, and their numbers have dwindled to just a handful.  
Very soon, two of them will be plucked from their group and knighted._ _

__Eggsy swears again and collapses back in the chair, resolutely tucking his hands under his thighs to avoid the temptation of biting his nails. He grits his teeth instead, tries to focus on counting his breathes, but soon resorts to counting the number of blue-bound books in the wall-to-ceiling bookcase that occupies one of the four walls of the room._ _

__He makes it to 162 before there is a gentle knock on the door. The door swings open before he can answer, revealing Harry who steps in, peering round the door to where Eggsy is seated._ _

__“Ready?” he asks lightly, steadily._ _

__The look on Eggsy’s face must say it all, as Harry steps forward to squeeze his shoulder. “Like I said, Eggsy,” he says softly. He straightens Eggsy’s tie. “Come on, now.”_ _

__Eggsy follows him, can’t help but feel like he’s being led to the gallows. The bottom of his stomach has dropped out entirely, leaving him feeling unsettled and nauseous. He enters the round table room after Harry who shuts the door behind him then returns to his seat as Eggsy circles round to the foot of the table. His palms are sweating and clammy, but he doesn’t dare wipe them on his trousers or jacket. He stays standing, awaits his sentence._ _

__“Thank you for your patience, Mr. Unwin,” Edward begins. His manners really are flawless without being offputtingly stuffy. “You have certainly left an impression on your peers, many of which you have certainly won their loyalty. I’ve never seen such a vehement defence even in my days as a litigator before Kingsman got its claws in me.” He smiles kindly. Eggsy tries to return it, hopes he does a passable job._ _

__“I’m pleased to say we have come to a decision. It is unanimous that everyone feels you are worthy of the title of Kingsman.” The ‘but’ is coming, Eggsy can fucking _feel_ , and right on cue, “However, enough concerns were voiced that we feel that it is necessary there be some recourse.”_ _

__Eggsy doesn’t understand what’s happening. “So what, I’m on probation or something?”_ _

__Edward smiles again, and it’s starting to make Eggsy’s back prickle. “Heavens no, boy. The last 10 months have surely been probation enough. You’ve proved you are deserving of the position. But we will be furthering your training, so-to-speak. Still as an active, official agent,” he adds on, seeing Eggsy’s confusion begin to shift to thunderclouds._ _

__“What do you mean by that? ‘Further training’; Training in what?” He’s being a bit rude, he knows it, but he doesn’t really care._ _

__“I suppose you could call it...” Edward gives a wry smile, and there is a slightly apologetic edge to it. “The art of being a gentleman.”_ _

__Eggsy gapes at him. “You’re sending me to bloody _etiquette_ school? Are you taking the piss?!”_ _

__“Of course not, Mr. Unwin. You’ll be receiving further tutelage by one of our own senior agents.” And Eggsy knows before he even says it, of fucking _course_ , “Galahad here has kindly offered his services which we felt is very appropriate given that he was your sponsor into Kingsman.”_ _

__Harry’s expression is inscrutable._ _

__Suddenly fainting, crying, and/or taking a swing at Harry seem like entirely suitable courses of action._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hurrr durrr.
> 
> And now that the bazillion word 'intro' is over we can start having fun.
> 
> Links:  
> Ch3 moodboard [here](https://https://ibbywrites.tumblr.com/post/167413943977/moodboardaesthetic-board-for-manners-maketh-man)  
> My writing tumblr [here](https://ibbywrites.tumblr.com/) please come say hi. I love asks and messages!
> 
> Kudos and comments much appreciated!!

**Author's Note:**

> Extended content including graphics, discussion and art can be found on my tumblr https://ibbywrites.tumblr.com/ as well as being trackable/searchable on tumblr under the tag #gentlemanshandbook
> 
> I would be thrilled to chat with y'all!
> 
> Comments and kudos are very much appreciated.


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